The Angel Descends
by ADiamondoraButterfly
Summary: What would have happened if Erik had been honest with Christine instead of trying to deceive her? Things could have been so different... Would she have accepted him for who he was? E/C. Active. Update: Deleted chapter is up!
1. Primo Movimento

**_Chapter 1_**

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 ** _"Follow me, reader! Who told you that there is no true, faithful, eternal love in this world! May the liar's vile tongue be cut out! Follow me, my reader, and I will show you such a love!"_ ―** **Mikhail Bulgakov** , ' **The Master and Margarita'**

 **Music for this chapter: _Violin Concerto No 1_ by Edgar Meyer; _Adagio in G minor_ , Remo Giazotto/Tomaso Albinoni**

* * *

 _It is imperative that I speak to you without delay,_ the note from Madame Giry had said. _Present yourself at my appartement at the earliest possible opportunity._

Erik was not in the habit of taking orders, but this one piqued his curiosity.

He waited until he knew it would be dark out - darkness was his guardian angel; in the darkness he was the same as other men - and then left behind the piece he'd been working on for Christine and emerged from his lair onto one of the chaotic boulevards that surrounded the Opéra. This part of the city was always crowded, but he managed to pass unnoticed. Unfortunately for him, his height and something about his presence seemed to draw people's eyes to him. But he had managed to counteract this by procuring a ragged, filthy-looking cloak and hat; this invariably made people, even young children, draw away from him on the street and avert their eyes. It was a sad truth that poverty disgusted people almost as much as his deformity had.

When he knocked at Madame Giry's door forty-five minutes later that evening, she opened it immediately.

"What has happened?" he said at once. "Are you well?"

"Yes, yes." She waved him inside and hastily the door. "But there is something I must speak with you about."

"So I gathered. Well?"

"Well-" Madame Giry stopped abruptly. She looked suddenly uncomfortable, as though an awkward conversation lay ahead of them.

Erik's curiosity grew.

"Sit down," she said at last. "Will you, er, take some coffee?"

"No," Erik said. "I don't like to stay long; it is too risky. You must not be seen with me."

"Very well. But this may turn out to be a rather lengthy conversation, so you ought to make yourself comfortable." Madame Giry gestured for him to sit.

"I really must insist on knowing why you have summoned me here, Madame." Erik draped himself into a chair, trying his hardest to make it look as though this arrangement had been his idea. "Is it urgent?" he added dryly.

"Yes," she said, lowering herself into the chair across from him. "I must speak to you about Christine. Few subjects could be of more importance to me."

"Christine?" Erik's face assumed a hunted expression. It looked as impenetrable - and as frightened - as a fortress on the alert, with a dropped portcullis and a hundred archers standing at the ready. But the moment was soon over. He rearranged his features into a reasonable impression of nonchalance. "What about her?" he said, trying to sound as though it were of no importance to him. "She, er, she is well, I trust?"

"Yes," Madame Giry said, "But-"

He relaxed slightly. "-Has Buquet been bothering her again? I was under the impression that I had successfully, er, _persuaded_ him to leave her and Meg alone- but I should be more than delighted to threaten him again." His eyes brightened at the thought.

Madame Giry shook her head. "Great Heavens, Erik. No wonder that imbecile is so obsessed with the 'Phantom'. How many times have you scared him?"

Erik merely grinned.

Madame Giry squeezed her eyes shut. "You are certainly welcome to menace him again, with my blessing, but that isn't what I have called you here for. My concern for Christine comes from another quarter." She opened her eyes and fixed them on him. "You see, Erik, I understand that after the Vicomte de Chagny visited Christine, her angel of music suddenly told her he will have to leave her if she ever marries. He said that if she bestows her heart on earth, there will be nothing left to do but for him to go back to Heaven."

"Did he?" Erik said. "Well, I suppose she had better do as he says, then. One ought not to trifle with heavenly beings."

" _You_ should not trifle with _me_!" Madame Giry's voice was so thunderous it frightened him. "Particularly where Christine is concerned! Did you think I would not guess your role in this? I have known for over a decade. Do you take me for a fool? Next I suppose you'll try to tell me there is another man with a fine tenor voice and an uncanny knack for music who is intimately familiar with the secret passages of the Opéra."

Erik swallowed.

"Do not mistake my deliberate oversight in this matter for blindness," Madame Giry went on. "Until now I have chosen to let it go on- I even encouraged Christine not to tell anyone else about it- because I regarded it as relatively harmless. In other words, I trusted you."

For once, Erik was without words. For the most part, he wasn't a man of strong principles. After the life he'd endured, it was impossible to be. But he was acutely conscious of how deeply he was in Madame Giry's debt - the fact that she would never have dreamed of alluding to it only made him feel it even more strongly. When he felt he'd failed her, it cut him deeply.

"In addition, I should like very much for Christine to achieve the musical success she dreams of, and I don't see any other way for her to receive lessons for free," Madame Giry said. "But I begin to see that I was mistaken. You have gone too far this time. I will not allow you to spoil her chances of making a respectable match!"

"A respectable match? You... you would see her married to the Vicomte?" Erik roared, his brief attack of guilt subsiding at once. "That ridiculous-"

"-I need to see her well taken care of. It is my duty to her. And to her father. I promised him."

"She does not need a husband to support her," Erik said. "Let me remind you that I have told you before I will always see she is provided for-" Realizing how this might be construed, he hastily added "-As well as you and Meg. And you know I have the means to keep that promise. I would never abandon any relation of yours, Madame. Not after what you did for me."

"Thank you," Madame Giry said. "I do not doubt your word. But you misunderstand me. It is not money I am concerned about. It is something else entirely. Christine has spent her entire life virtually alone. She wants the love and companionship of a husband - she confided that to me. Why should you object to that?"

"No feeling person _wouldn't_ object to her giving up her art just as she is on the brink of a brilliant musical career!"

"I do not think she will have to sacrifice her art for the sake of companionship. Not if the right gentleman-"

"-But don't you understand that is precisely what she would have to do if she married that damned Vicomte?" Erik roared. "Those aristocratic families would never tolerate one of their members taking the stage! And yet you say I am the one who has tried to force her to make sacrifices?"

Madame Giry held up a hand. "I agree that if she were to marry into a family like that, she would certainly have to leave behind all thoughts of a career onstage. In fact, I intend to express my concerns on that very subject to Christine at the earliest possible opportunity - and that is not something I would do lightly."

"Aha." Erik folded his arms and narrowed his eyes smugly. "Then what harm would my trying to keep her away from him do? Why have you called me here to lecture me?"

"First, because it is not your place to decide the matter- it is Christine's. But it is not my intention to lecture you. I called you here for another reason."

"What now?"

"Because the 'Angel' did not just say no Vicomtes, Erik- he said no young men in general." Madame Giry's gaze was piercing. "Would you care to tell me why that might be?"

Erik's flippant demeanor faded away once more. It was a transformation Madame Giry had often witnessed- from bravado to intense vulnerability- and it always happened with dazzling speed.

She watched as he glanced away, laced his fingers nervously together, cast about for an answer. "She's much too young to be married," he came up with at last, clinging pathetically to what little was left of his composure. "No good can come of rushing into matrimony at her age."

It was a weak argument, and they both knew it.

Madame Giry found she had to hide a smile. "She is not. Twenty is a very appropriate age to be married at. Many of the girls her age in the _corps_ are soon to be married. I can only assume you are aware of that, as you seem to be aware to an unsettling extent of everything else that goes on at the Opéra," she added wryly. "What, then, is your real objection?"

Erik squirmed, truly beaten. "I- I-"

"Ah," Madame Giry said, smiling as her statements at last found their target. "We now come to the point, don't we?"

"I don't like what you're insinuating," Erik blurted out defensively, with the look of a cornered animal. "What you are suggesting is foul and disgusting, and- and I call it unfair of you to make such assumptions, and I never said-"

"-What do you imagine that I am 'insinuating'?" Madame Giry was determined to make him acknowledge it.

"You're trying to make out that…" Erik couldn't say it. "That... that I am in love with Christine!" he at last managed to gasp out, the shameful words crashing up against one another so they were almost unintelligible.

Madame Giry lifted her eyebrows. "Well, are you, perhaps?"

Erik couldn't stand it any longer. The shame was eating away at him. Besides, denying what he felt for Christine Daae, his only angel... that was nothing short of blasphemy. "Very well!" he roared, leaping up so violently his chair and the table beside it fell over. "You have me! Yes, I dared to raise my eyes to her! Me, of all the lowliest, most despicable creatures on earth! I've tried to make myself stop loving her, as God is my witness I have, and I cannot! There!- You've found out my filthy secret! Well done! My shame is complete. Are you satisfied?"

"No," Madame Giry said gently and solemnly, her grey eyes fixed on him.

"Then do you mean to tell her?" he asked in horror.

"Certainly not."

"Then what do you want from me?" Erik cried. "What would you have me do now? Why did you drag it out of me? Do you mean to humiliate me as much as possible?"

"I do not want to see you humiliated." Madame Giry looked wounded. "Surely you know me better than that."

"Yes," Erik admitted slowly. "But... I don't understand."

"You have told me nothing you need be ashamed of. Of course you love Christine. And it does you credit. It is a mark of your discernment."

"Others would not see it that way," Erik said bitterly. He had dared to love someone once before, in a childish way, when he was about seven. One of the little girls in the gypsy camp. To his endless astonishment, she had said she liked him back. But then, in her innocent happiness, she had told her father of their affection. He had beaten Erik almost senseless, and then he had beaten her far worse, in front of Erik. And that was only over a stupid childish crush. God in Heaven, what would people do to him if they knew of the grand operatic passion he felt for Christine, as far greater than childish inclination as the sun was greater than the moon? Worse, what might they do to her?

"But we must face facts," Madame Giry said. "I thought that your forbidding her to marry was not only for her sake, but for yours as well. I know now that I was right. You have wronged her, Erik. It was wrong of you to use your influence over her this way."

"I did not mean to. I only meant that if she formed an alliance with the Vicomte, it would be too painful for me to remain. I did not know I had such a hold on her."

"Be that as it may - you cannot keep hold of her like this. Either you tell her she is free to marry, or you give up this deception. In fact, I think eventually you must give it up either way."

Erik regarded her through narrowed, defiant eyes. "Why should I do that?" A horrified look leapt onto his features. "You mean to tell her if I do not."

 _End of Chapter 1_

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 **Note: Given that this is a story about a great singer and a musical genius, it's just not complete without music! So I am including 'soundtrack' suggestions. I hope the songs I suggest can introduce you to some gorgeous new music and enhance your experience of the story, if you wish.** **I strongly support streaming/buying music legally (most of the songs are readily available on iTunes, Amazon, Apple Music, etc). That's how we support artists, ensuring more gorgeous new music can be created in the future!**

 **Some French words:**

 **Madame = Mrs., ma'am**

 **Vicomte = viscount**


	2. An (Un)expected Revelation

**_Chapter 2_**

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 ** _Music suggestions: 'First Visit' by Elmer Bernstein - 'The Age of Innocence' movie soundtrack; 'Felicity' by Patrick Doyle - 'Sense and Sensibility' soundtrack; Violin Concerto Movement No. 1 by Edgar Meyer, played by Hilary Hahn._**

* * *

"No," Madame Giry said, though she was not sure this was true. She had not decided what to do. She needed to feel out the situation a little further. "Besides, don't you see you should tell her-"

"-What?" he roared.

"-Yes. And not because of any threat I might make, but because it is the honorable thing to do?"

"Honor does not have a place in my life, I fear."

"I believe it does. But even if you do not agree: Consider that it would be better for Christine to know you as a human being. It would be better for both of you."

"It is impossible!"

"Why?"

"To name one reason among many - she would never forgive me!"

"Perhaps she could. She would understand that you meant to help."

"Be that as it may," Erik said, "I cannot do as you ask. I would risk losing her forever, and that... that would..." He broke off. "You know perfectly well I am not proud of how I have deceived her. But can you not see that there is no other way?"

He stood and turned to go.

It was absolutely necessary to stop him, Madame Giry thought in a panic. He must be persuaded, for Christine's sake. Her future depended on it. "But Erik," she cried in a fit of desperation, "Have you considered that you cannot win her as an angel?"

Erik slowly turned round, his eyes wide. "You mistake me, Madame," he stammered, looking as though he'd been accused of a crime. "It was never my intention to try to have her for myself. * The thought of a thing like me with her... It is... it is..." He stopped, finding no word sufficient to convey his disgust.

"I know it was not your intention," Madame Giry said. "I believe you would have carried this secret to your grave if you could. But perhaps you should consider telling her of your affection."

"That would only frighten the poor girl. Hasn't she suffered enough in life?" He tried to brush the suggestion off with levity, but Madame Giry could see that he was truly unsettled.

"But Erik, I truly believe you might have a chance with her," she said.

"What?" Erik said, sounding as though she had spoken to him in Mazovian.

"Is it so impossible to imagine she could love you?"

A frightening, wild light came into Erik's eyes. "Why..." he cried suddenly, "You... You..."

"What is it?" she asked, startled by the change in his demeanor. She had never seen him like this before. He had always been mercurial; she was used to his temper. But she had a feeling that whatever had been triggered this time went deeper than any of the rest of it.

"I ought to have known," he said in frighteningly quiet tones. "This is your plan to punish me. Oh, very clever. You nearly fooled me for a moment."

"-Punish you for what?" Madame Giry asked helplessly.

"-You cannot let the freak even think about your girl that way, not even in the depths of his heart!" he roared. "Oh, no, he must be made to pay! You must make him announce his depravity so the whole world can know about it! He must fall on his face and make a fool of himself in front of the one thing he worships! Then he will never make the mistake of daring to raise his eyes to her again!" He stopped and stared at her, breathing heavily, half-sick with humiliation.

From the look in his eyes Madame Giry could see that he scarcely recognized her or remembered where he was. He was lost in his own pain.

She drew herself up in her chair, more sad than angry. "How can you imagine I would think about you in that way?" she said, her voice gentle but firm. "And even if I did, do you suppose I would drag my Christine into a scheme like that?"

Erik eyed her warily for a moment, weak from his outburst but still on the defensive. He blinked several times; his breathing slowed. At least he seemed to recognize her face again, to realize that he was standing in front of one of the only people who had shown him compassion - not the hundreds of others who had despised, rejected and brutalized him. "You are right," he managed at last, sitting down heavily. "Forgive me, Madame."

Madame Giry nodded, ready to forgive but still faint from the intensity of the emotions they'd both just witnessed.

"Thank you," Erik said tiredly. "I know you do not think of me the way I said. But I do not understand, because that would mean..." For a moment he looked as absorbed and perplexed as though he were doing calculus in his head - more, even, for calculus he at least understood. This new idea, that of him and Christine, was more vast and unwieldy than any he had ever heard of. Nothing in his lonely life had prepared him for it.

"You really think I could have a chance with her?" he said at last.

"You have many of the traits I've heard her say she hopes for in a husband."

"A _husband_? She cannot _marry_ the likes of me!"

"She might be very glad to marry 'the likes of you'. She seeks a gentleman with a cultured, active, refined mind. A mind such as yours, in fact. Look at yourself."

"I try not to."

"Don't twist my words," she said impatiently. "You know what I mean. You are an artist, a scholar. You understand music. There are few who do."

A tiny flicker of hope glimmered in Erik's eyes, like the faintest imaginable spark. Then, however, it was extinguished. He had lost the thread of this equation. He could not see how Madame Giry could possibly have resolved it. "I am sorry, Madame," he said shakily. "Things will go on as they are."

"So you don't believe me, then?" Madame Giry said.

He thought for a long time. "I know you are not lying to me," he said at last. "I believe that for some reason you truly are convinced I could win her, and for that I thank you (even as I question your judgment). But I cannot quite bring myself to believe it is possible. Besides, even if it were... even if it were... it would be..." He broke off and turned to go.

This time, she couldn't think of anything to say that would stop him.

She watched him disappear down the hall, then locked her door and went to bed feeling defeated.

 _End of Chapter 2. Thank you so much for reading!_

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 _*For the record, I'm pretending the whole wedding-dress-dummy thing never happened- it's creepy as heck. I'm allowed to ignore it because it isn't in the original Leroux novel, so it's not canon, thank goodness. :)_


	3. Deciso

**Chapter 3**

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The next evening, there came an unexpected knock on Madame Giry's door. With a groan, she got up. She peered through the peephole in her door, but could see no one.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"The used furniture salesman." It was Erik's voice.

She blinked, surprised - before, he hadn't come here in years, and now three visits in a week. What was the matter with him?

"Ah, yes," she said, playing her part - the walls were thin, and passersby could hear what she said too. "I have a few pieces I think would be of interest to you." She opened the door and hurriedly ushered Erik inside.

"Indeed? Your offer intrigues me. I look forward to doing business with you," he said, struggling to keep the irony out of his voice.

She swiftly shut the door, eager to hear what he really had to say.

"Thank God," Erik said, collapsing back into his usual persona. "I could not keep up that overwrought charade much longer. The world did not lose a great actor in me."

"An uncharacteristically modest remark."

"Ha, ha."

Madame Giry almost smiled. "What have you come for?" she asked as pleasantly as possible.

He swallowed. "Well, to be frank... Madame, I have decided you were right about Christine."

Hope surged through her. "Really?"

"This may astonish you, but yes, I am in earnest."

"I am so very pleased!" She clasped her hands together in delight - not something she did often.

"I wish I shared that sentiment." He sighed. "But, like it or not, I have reached the conclusion that telling Christine the truth about this whole affair is indeed the only moral thing to do. I won't be at peace until I do. I was unable to sleep last night, you know, even down there in the dark. Even music did not help." He blinked as though this were the most unimaginable thing he could think of. "It is most peculiar."

"What you are experiencing is the awakening of your conscience. In properly functioning individuals, they are notoriously difficult to silence. Inconvenient, isn't it?" Madame Giry said. She'd meant it as a joke, but her voice fell short of the necessary note of levity- perhaps because her mind was so preoccupied with concerns for Christine- and it came out sounding harsher than she had intended.

Instantly she felt a twinge of regret. She couldn't imagine what it was costing Erik to let Christine go like this. It was cruel to make light of that.

To his credit- and somewhat to her surprise- he did not respond in anger.

"Yes, it is," he said with a knowing smirk in her direction. "And it is at least partially your doing, so I will have you know I shall hold you responsible you for whatever goes amiss." He paused, and his face assumed a more serious expression. "It is not only that, though. Until now I had never... thought all this through, you know."

"Oh?" Madame Giry could see that some kind of revelation had appeared on the horizon. She gestured to what, somewhat to her concern, was well on its way to becoming his usual chair.

He accepted with none of his usual hauteur.

"Last night I did," he said. "I almost wish I had not allowed myself to do so now, because of the implications that have occurred to me..." He paused. "But it cannot be undone. I realized I have enough of only being able to have her stay with me because she feels she must. I cannot be satisfied with that any longer."

Madame Giry nodded, pleased.

"And... now that I have thought of us knowing each other as fellow-creatures, I cannot relinquish the idea," he said. "Why did you have to do this? Why did you go stirring up discontent, making me hope for things I can never have? I know I am going to... fall on my face. I know I haven't a chance. But still I shall not have any peace until I try."

"I wouldn't say that," she ventured gently. "There is always a chance, is there not?"

He sadly shook his head. "There are never chances. Not for me. Not for anything."

There was an awkward silence.

"You have not told her yet, I take it, then?" she said.

"No, but I must, and soon."

"Why not?" she asked.

"For several reasons. First, I wondered if you might put in a good word for me with her."

She froze. "Only if it becomes necessary. You've said yourself we can't have people finding out that I know you. The blackmailing... the threats... I would be guilty by association."

"Well, it almost certainly will be necessary at some point. How else will she know she can trust me? Are you saying you will be willing to if it does become necessary?"

She swallowed. "Yes," she said uneasily.

"Thank you, Madame! I am truly grateful."

Erik's unsuspecting, open, genuine smile sent a weight of guilt crashing down on her.

"Did you say there was another reason?" she asked quickly.

"But of course," he said. "According to you, Madame, the total of my knowledge of human interaction wouldn't fill a postage stamp. I didn't think you would want me negotiating an affair as delicate as this without consulting with you first. What are your thoughts on the matter?"

"Well, then," she said. "Where to meet her... hem... You'll want somewhere where you can speak without being overheard, but..."

"My home?" Erik said.

" _Sainte-Marie_! Non! She'd be terrified." In addition, Madame Giry couldn't help fearing that if things went badly, the temptation for Erik to keep Christine down there in the hope that she would somehow learn to love him, like Belle in the Beast's castle, would be too great. Erik was, she firmly believed, incapable of hurting a defenseless young woman, or she would never have allowed him near Christine - but in his loneliness and desperation, he was capable of who knew what other mad, foolish actions. "Arrange a meeting in a public place to tell her."

"Why?" Erik demanded.

"It will make you appear more trustworthy to her."

"And also because then you don't have to worry about her being safe from me!" Erik said bitterly. "Do you really think so little of me as to imagine that I would form some kind of evil design against her?"

"No!" Madame Giry said, her temper flaring up in turn. "While it is true, I concur, that you have little enough idea of what is acceptable when it comes to how one behaves toward fellow members of the human race-"

"-Thank you!" Erik said angrily.

"-Nonetheless I do not think you could ever sink so far as to take advantage of a defenseless young girl's trust in you."

"-How kind!" Erik shouted.

For a moment there was silence.

Taking a deep breath, Erik added, "Then why will you not trust me?"

She swallowed awkwardly, fumbling for a response. "It is for Christine to decide if she wishes to place her trust in you - not me," she said at last.

Erik silently took this. "Very well," he said at last, satisfied. "But unfortunately the fact remains that I cannot go out in public."

"It doesn't have to be the dining-room at the Hotel Bristol," she said tartly. "It could be a park - no one would pay much attention to you there. There are several very fine large parks in Paris."

"Really? You astonish me," Erik said icily.

Madame Giry sighed. "Well, she loves Parc Monceau. It is close to the Opéra and no one would pay much notice to you there. Or a church. Churches are very respectable. Or at least, they're supposed to be," she added wryly. "Not the Madeleine, though, I think - there are too many tourists there. Somewhere smaller."

Erik pondered all this for a few moments. "But what if she took off my mask? In front of everyone? Madame, I won't be gawked at like an animal in a circus again! I cannot!"

"I do not think she would," Madame Giry said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone. "She is a polite girl, and it isn't polite to go around snatching people's masks off their faces. This isn't an operetta."

"Even so... what if she sends for the police?" Erik protested in something closer to his usual voice.

"I suppose that is a risk you must take," she said simply. "You must decide if she is worth that."

Erik swallowed. He already knew his answer to that without even having to think about it. Christine was worth risking anything for.

"Very well," he said at last.

"The most important thing. You must learn to control your temper."

He blinked at her in mild outrage. "My temper is perfectly under control."

Madame Giry stifled a laugh.

"Well," he said in dignified outrage, standing up and moving toward the door. "I shall give you the money to buy me a new suit, though I still think it will do no good. But if you are going to do nothing but insult me, I shall go. If I am still alive after tomorrow, I shall tell you how everything played out."

It occurred to her suddenly that he might not be joking. "Erik, wait!" she called.

He stopped. "What is it?"

"Erik, I... Well, you're not the only one in this room who has trouble expressing their affection for their fellow human-beings. I know my manner can seem somewhat brusque at times."

He looked at her in surprise.

"However," she said, "You should know that... I think you have the capacity to be a great man." Her voice suddenly sounded strained, and tears pooled in her eyes. "These past few days you have shown yourself to be honest, self-sacrificing and courageous. I don't know how much of a role I played in that. But if I did have a hand in it in any small way, I am tremendously proud. There are few people who could endure a fraction of the trials you have and come out with even a shred of their character intact. That is praiseworthy indeed."

Erik found himself blinking back tears as well. "Well... Er... thank you, Madame. I am grateful."

For a moment, the two Parisians froze, horrified by their display of sentimentality. Erik stared down at his feet as though he had never noticed them before.

Mercifully, he at last put them both out of their misery by swiftly escaping out the door.

Madame Giry listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall. An astonishing weight of sorrow settled in her chest. It had been a successful week's work, but she found it impossible to feel proud of herself. She hated herself for this deception.

The moment she'd guessed Erik was in love with Christine, she'd thought her heart would burst with pity for him. It had seemed impossible that his life could become any more tragic, but it had.

And here she was undoubtedly helping it become even moreso. But what choice did she have? Letting him declare himself and hear the dreadful and inevitable reply from Christine's own lips was the only possible solution to this dreadful predicament. There was no other way to save him and her from this mad, all-consuming obsession, and from the hold he had over her as the angel.

No way, that was, aside from having him arrested, and she refused to even contemplate that.

 _Even though that might very possibly be less painful for him than this is going to be,_ said a voice in her head.

She winced.

It wasn't her fault, she told herself over and over. She couldn't make Christine love him, any more than he could. Even she could only do so much - she couldn't change what he was, what he had always been.

When, then, did she still feel like she was betraying Erik to his doom?

She squeezed her eyes shut. _Oh, Erik, forgive me..._

 ** _End of Chapter 3_**

* * *

 ** _Notes:_**

 ** _*_ I'm sure Erik appreciates the finer things in life, but I can't imagine him spending money on clothes when he has no one to impress. I'd imagine he would spend his money on things that bring _him_ enjoyment, like fine wines.**


	4. Calando

**_Chapter 4_**

* * *

 ** _Let me fall_**

 ** _Let me climb_**

 ** _There's a moment when fear and dreams must collide..._**

 ** _Let me fall_**

 ** _Though the phoenix may or may not rise..._**

 ** _-Cirque du Soleil_**

* * *

"We're going to meet... do you mean in person?" Christine's voice was a mixture of astonishment, apprehension, and hope. She stood in her little practice-room and looked up toward the Heavens, as she was wont to do when speaking to the angel.

"Yes," Erik said.

"But... after all this time... I thought you did not... have a form."

An interesting way of putting it, he thought. "I can, when I wish to." If only he could escape it when he wished to! he thought wryly.

"I see," she said. "When is this to be?"

"Tomorrow."

"Where?"

"I shall appear to you at the Église Lutherienne de la Redemption."

She sounded surprised. "Will people seeing you cause a … commotion?"

"So you think the faithful would be surprised to see one of the angels they profess to believe in?" he asked rather nastily.

She smiled. "Yes. Mère Giry said I should not tell anyone that I have heard the voice of an angel. She said they would think I was suffering from delusions and I would end up... put away somewhere."

He felt a twinge of guilt. Nearly everyone would have thought poor Christine mad for thinking she'd spoken with an angel. Thank God Madame Giry had insisted she never tell anyone. "Well, I shan't appear in a pillar of fire, if that is what you mean. I shall appear in mortal garments." Suddenly he had a stroke of inspiration. "And I shall be wearing a mask." He waited uneasily for her reaction to this.

"That is a good idea," she said.

He exhaled the anxious, pent-up breath he'd been holding. If only everything that was to come could go so smoothly.

* * *

 _The next day_

Though the Église Lutherienne de la Redemption was only about a third of a mile from the Opéra Populaire, it seemed worlds away. The opera house was situated in one of the most expensive parts of Paris, but it was startling how fast the character of the neighborhood changed when one moved just a few blocks north and east. If it were only his own safety he had to think of, Erik would have been undaunted - he had lived in far worse. But he hated to think of Christine, with her marked air of unworldly innocence, walking these streets by herself. Though it was broad daylight, as he made his way to the church he resolved to see Christine back to the opera house himself- at her side if by some miracle they were still on good terms after his confession, and unobserved if they were not.

The church turned out to be low, windowless, solid-looking, and so ugly that Erik could only assume the architect had, for some mischievous reason of his own, made it hideous on purpose.

He was glad. It meant there wouldn't be a crowd of gawking tourists. Those who had even ventured this way at all would sweep past it without stopping, bound for the Opéra or for more attractive-looking houses of worship.

When he went inside he saw Christine was already there, sitting quietly in an alcove, her eyes closed in prayer.

She wore a plain dark coat and an old pair of black gloves. An old straw hat, freshened only with a nosegay of little daisies she'd obviously picked on the way, covered her dark curls. He thought she'd never looked lovelier.

He called on all the skill of stealth he'd learned over the years and glided silently through the nave, eventually coming to rest a few feet in front of her.

For a few moments he regarded her in silence. He wanted to memorize every detail of her face. He might never see it again.

Suddenly she opened her eyes.

Her face lit up, and she stood up so fast she dropped the worn Bible she'd been holding. He stooped to pick it up, glad to have the chance to look away from her for a moment - he had never been this close to her before, and now that they were face-to-face, soon to have no wall of artifice between them, her beauty terrified him. It reminded him anew of how stupid he'd been to raise his eyes to her, how impossible it was that he could win her. It was like a slap in the face. It seemed to mock him. _She_ was gentle and good - her expression kind and distant - but her beauty was a cruel thing, quite separate from her, just as his ugliness was from him.

"Thank you, Monsieur," she said breathlessly, as he silently and with trembling hands gave the fragile little volume back to her. "Are- are you the...?" She glanced around and, seeing there were a few other visitors in the church, didn't finished the sentence.

There was a lump in his throat. He swallowed. "Christine, I am your teacher."

"It is you!" she said, recognizing this voice. "I had not expected you to be so..." She looked him up and down.

"Hm?"

"Attired like this, you seem quite like an ordinary man."

"I very nearly am," he said wryly.

To his surprise, suddenly she grabbed his hand in both of hers, holding it clasped reverently between them. "I have so much to thank you for... I can never repay you!"

He stood silent for a moment. No one had ever held his hand before. The shock of that simple contact made him weak in the knees. For a moment he wanted to forget this whole affair and simply remain standing there like that forever. If only that were possible. "There is nothing to repay," he said when he trusted himself to speak.

"Forgive me," she said, releasing his hand. "But I am so grateful. Oh, how good it is to be able to say that to you face to face!" she cried. "I am so glad we can have this meeting!"

"And I."

"Is it strange for you to be in human form?" she asked under her breath, taking in the sight of him.

 _Well..._ "I certainly don't like being in this form," he said ironically. "It's not what I would have chosen."

She didn't understand, of course. "I am sorry."

"Thank you. But it isn't your doing." She couldn't possibly know what he meant by that either, of course. What a buffoon he was being.

To change the subject, he gestured to a pew and sat a careful few feet away from her. He almost felt afraid to come closer.

"Thank you," Christine said, settling in the spot he had indicated.

They sat in silence for a long moment. Too late, he realized she had been waiting for him to speak.

"If I may ask," she ventured after a moment, "Is there a particular reason for this meeting?"

"As ever, you are disquietingly astute."

She looked confused. "Have I erred in some way?" she asked.

"No. Of course not. You have conducted yourself blamelessly. And now we come to the point. There is a reason for this meeting. In fact... It is I who must beg your forgiveness, Christine."

"What? Do... do you have to leave me again?" She stared at him in alarm. He had left once before, when she was fifteen, to spend three years in Persia. His absence had wounded her deeply. The thought haunted him. He couldn't help but think he had left her alone during one of the most difficult periods of her life. Those few tumultuous years were a trial for everyone.

"No," he said. "I will stay as long as you want. I have no intention of leaving again." Indeed that was the case. He wasn't sure he could leave her now, even if he wished to. It would probably kill him. He was bound to her.

Christine relaxed.

"It is worse than that, I fear," he said.

She looked as though she were trying to imagine what could be worse. "Are... are you a fallen angel?" she asked in confusion. "Surely not. The music you have given me... it is surely divine. It cannot be infernal."

"No, I am not. It is not quite as bad as that, I suppose." He drew in a deep, shaky breath. "The fact is, I have deceived you."

"In what way?" she said.

"I am not an angel."

"I don't understand."

"I think you do," he said. "I think in your heart you suspect it already. I am..." _A deformed freak. A monster_. "Just a man." _Well, that is flattering yourself._

"What?" Christine's eyes leapt over his form before returning to his eyes. "Then you are not really the angel! You are an imposter imitating his voice, pretending to be him! What is the meaning of this? How did you-"

"-The angel _is_ an imposter, I am afraid."

"He is not!" Christine cried.

Her voice carried as only a coloratura's could - he'd trained her well.

A few rows away, a prim-looking elderly lady, who until then had looked blissfully absorbed in contemplation of the divine, aimed a surprisingly venomous glare at her.

"But he... his voice came from the walls!" Christine continued after a moment, her voice quieter but no less emphatic. "Sometimes it seemed to be coming from right beside me, and yet there was no-one there."

"That is because I am quite practiced in the art of ventriloquism."

She glared at him disbelievingly. "No-one could be so convincing."

"I thank you, but it is not true. Would you oblige me by looking over there?" he said, pointing into a nearby dark corner.

She did, though reluctantly.

"Do you see?" came his disembodied voice from out of the shadows.

She stared, looking as though she were about to come undone. At last, her gaze shifted back to him. "I've been so stupid. I've been made a fool of," she said at last, her voice icy.

"No," he said at once.

"How you must have laughed at me." Her eyes could have burnt holes in him.

"Laughed at you? Never! No one could ever make a fool of you, Christine," he said fervently, his own voice shaking with emotion.

Something shifted in her expression. For a moment, she wore a look almost like hope. Only for a moment, though, and then it was gone, replaced by the anger and - what hurt him worse - the grief from before. "Who is behind this?" she said. "Was this La Carlotta's doing? She is trying to make out that I am mad! There is no call for it. What have I ever done to her that she would treat me in this way?" She was almost in tears.

He offered her his handkerchief. She waved it away like an intrusive fly.

"It is nothing to do with her," he said.

"It must be her," Christine insisted.

"Would your rival, a woman who feels threatened (and quite rightly so, I might add) by your new success, have one of her toadys teach you to sing?" he pointed out. "La Carlotta knows nothing of this. I acted alone. I would never associate with an imbecile like her."

"You are right," she said.

"Oh?" he said, surprised.

"Yes - this is beneath even La Carlotta. I do not believe she is so malicious as that."

He winced. "I can only humbly beg your forgiveness."

She came within a hair's-breadth of running out of the chapel.

But curiosity overcome her fear and anger.

Even though she was frightened, even though he had every mark of being some deranged and possibly dangerous lunatic, deep in her mind there was the realization that this was the most interesting thing that had happened in her life. A part of her wanted to unwind the string a little further, see how it would play out.

Besides, the angel had gone up in flames, but she needed some remnant of him to hold onto. And he, outrageous, presumptuous and deceitful though he may be, was that remnant.

"Who are you really?" she said at last. "Tell me at once."

He relaxed a little. Five more seconds with her. That was better than nothing. "I am a musician. A composer," he said, forgetting for a moment that normal people defined themselves by their names rather than their passions.

"Yes, so I gathered. What do you call yourself?" she demanded. _Comment vous vous-appelez?_

Erik swallowed. How interesting the French language was. Most of the time it was entirely ridiculous, but occasionally it offered moments of startling insight. How precisely that phrase hit the nail on the head - not 'what was his name', but what did he call himself. That was the real question.

Erik hesitated. He could always make up a name. But he wanted there to be as few lies as possible. The ones he had already told her were starting to felt like a net tangled around him.

"I was christened Alphonse Masson," he said. The name felt strange in his mouth - he had not spoken it in years. He loathed it. "But I go by Erik."

It wasn't as though anyone could hunt him down based on that information, he reasoned. There were an abundance of Massons in Paris - plenty of people's ancestors had been stonemasons.

"Why Erik?" Christine asked.

"I don't know," he lied.

"Hm," she said. "Monsieur Masson." There was a hint of disparagement in the way she said it, as though it were so plainly generic that it must be a pseudonym.

"Don't call me Monsieur Masson," he said. "That is my father." _The snake..._

"Then what do you want me to call you?" she said.

That was good, he hoped gingerly. Wasn't it? If she had made up her mind never to see him again surely she would not have asked that.

And thus, with such insubstantial hopes, he had been artificially keeping himself alive for years.

"Erik, I suppose," he said.

"I cannot call you by your first name."

"You may think of it as my surname if you wish. I have long since thought of it as serving me for both."

"Very well, then..." Christine hesitated. She thought about saying 'Erik', but it felt wrong. After a moment's pause, she simply let her voice trail off, like a note she couldn't maintain. "Ah, and... where do you come from?" she said at last instead.

"I was born in France, near Rouen. But I don't belong to any country, not properly. Nowhere I've been has welcomed and kept me."

"More secrets!" she said angrily. "And are you going to let me see who you are? Or is your intention to conceal yourself from me forever?"

He stiffened. "What?"

"It is generally believed that people in masks cannot be trusted," she said tartly.

His hand went involuntarily to the mask, his second skin, so familiar that he often forgot he was wearing it - no, more than that; it had become a part of him. "I... You wouldn't know me anyway. I don't see what good it would do," he stammered.

"So you won't take off your mask?" she demanded.

There. The gauntlet was down. It lay smoldering before him.

He knew the question was coming and had intended to brush it aside as though it didn't bother him. But he hadn't realized that just hearing those awful words was still enough to paralyze him. He lost control of his voice. He could train Christine's to be perfectly under control, but could not do the same for himself.

"No," he said, painfully aware of how insane he sounded. His next words came _rapidamente_. "Please don't. Anything but that. If you ask that of me, I shall leave. I cannot bear to be looked at."

Christine must have seen the fear in his eyes, how he seemed to shrink in on himself. "So I've thrown my lot in with an eccentric?" she said at last. "Marvelous. Christine, what sort of mess have you gotten into?" But her voice was more gentle.

"I am not an eccentric," he protested. _I am ahead of my time. I am a genius._

She nearly smirked. "Oh, certainly not. why do you wear it, then?"

"What?"

"Were you burned with acid or something?" she said wryly.

"No." Well, yes. Once when he was younger, he had tried that, thinking that if he could burn away the deformed part of his face, normal flesh would grow back in its place. It had not worked. But that was not the source of the problem - though it had made it worse. "I simply..." He stopped, unable to think of any way to complete the sentence.

Christine, to his eternal gratitude, did not pursue the matter.

But she was far from finished with her interrogation.

"Why have you been teaching me?" she said, returning to the attack.

"I heard your voice, I saw that it had potential and I took an... an artistic interest," he said simply. "I am only surprised no one else did."

"As a matter of fact, they did," she said. "I just couldn't afford their services. Why have you been doing this for free? What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," he said. "I had no... objective in mind. No, that is not entirely true. I confess I was lonesome, and having you to talk to was of great assistance in that regard."

She looked unconvinced.

For some time she seemed to have been trying to gather the courage to ask something in particular. "Where precisely were you during the lessons?"

"There is a passage behind the wall of your practice-room," he told her.

She nodded as though she had been expecting something of the kind. "I see. Well, I must ask... Have you been... watching me without my knowing it? _Looking_ at me?" she said at last, blurting out the words as quickly as possible. Unconsciously she folded her arms protectively around herself, and Erik knew exactly what she meant.

He admired her for having the courage to ask. "No," he said truthfully. He had spent too many years being gawked at without his consent, sometimes even without his knowledge. He would not prey on her thus. The very idea was anathema to him. "There is nothing I despise more than voyeurism. It is vile. It is low and cowardly and mean and in every way despicable." His voice shook with fury and pain.

Christine met his gaze. The strength of the virtue and goodness in her eyes frightened him. "I believe you," she decided after a moment. "But then I don't see..."

"...What I gained from this?" he finished when she hesitated.

"To be frank," she said, "Yes."

"Your artistic progress is sufficient reward. Is it really so difficult to believe someone could help you without an ulterior motive?" he asked sadly. Deep down it seemed poor Christine was almost as broken as he was.

She shrugged. "A lady of my station is not unaccustomed to people- especially gentlemen- doing anything for her without expecting some... recompense," she said.

He felt a blaze of fury and a twinge of guilt. Granted, he didn't want to ask of her what those men did. But he did want something from her - he knew not what. He wasn't sharing all his motivations with her, even now. This net of lies was proving harder to cut his way out of than he'd expected. Was he cursed never to be able to tell the whole truth about himself to anyone?

"Forgive me if I am skeptical," Christine went on. "Besides, how can I help but doubt your motives when you have been lying to me for years? Why did you say you were an angel? If you wanted to teach me, why did you not approach me as... as a mortal? I would have accepted."

There was a long silence.

"Ten years ago," he said at last, "I was still little more than a child myself, and I saw you, a lonely little orphan, much like myself, begging her Papa to send her an angel of music. I didn't want to interfere, but... it occurred to me there was something I could do for that poor lonely child. I know not how exactly the idea came to me."

"But-"

"-The thought of deceiving you troubled me greatly- please do not imagine that it did not. I agonized about the matter for weeks. But all the while you were still waiting, and..." He stopped and shook his head. He hadn't expected that retelling the tale would stir such emotions in him, but he found a lump had formed in his throat.

"I see." Christine thought. In this at least, he was right. He had saved her. Saved her heart from freezing. If what he'd said was true, then what she had thought was manipulative had been an act of mercy. In this, at least, he was exonerated.

Still, there were so many other questions she needed to ask. "How did you find me?" she asked. "How did you know about me?"

"I lived in the opera house," he said.

"Oh, did you work at the opera, then?"

"Oh, yes... In a fashion."

"How did it happen that I never heard of you, then?" she asked. "It may be vast, but it is not infinite, even if the Empire would like us to think so."

"I suppose we… moved in different circles."

"Oh, yes, you must be very high above me," she sneered, taking in the elegant new suit he had ordered.

"Quite the contrary, I assure you." He smiled sadly.

She looked uncertain how to reply. Casting about for something to do, she glanced at her watch, a pretty, delicate silver thing hung on a short chain around her neck. It had been her mother's, she'd told him once - one of the few possessions Cathrine Daae had been able to leave to her little daughter.

"I must go," she said after a moment. "Rehearsal is beginning soon." She leapt up.

"Yes." He stood up as well. "Might I accompany you back?" he couldn't stop himself from asking. He knew it was venturing too much, but every second he could glean with her was precious.

She swallowed. "I would prefer you did not, thank you."

Polite though her refusal was, he still felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach. It was all he could do to stand there as she walked toward the door.

His eyes misted over. The dark, ugly church became a dark, ugly blur.

Then suddenly, before he quite realized what was happening, Christine was back before him. There was a stormy look on her face.

"Yes?" he said, blinking hard.

"It appears I have forgotten to ask you something," she said, trying to muster her dignity. "Well, two things, as a matter of fact. First, why did you tell me I couldn't marry?" She looked half-afraid and half-angry.

He came as close to the truth as possible. "I should think it would be obvious. If you had a husband, he wouldn't let you be on the stage."

She took this in. "I suppose in many cases that is true. Still, whoever you are, it is not for you to decide whether I marry. It is no concern of yours!"

"You are right, of course," he said. There was no other possible reply. Still, inside he was screaming. _Don't you understand that I know you better than anyone else? For God's sake, don't throw yourself away!_

"I have spent the first part of my life alone," she said. "I won't spend the rest of it that way!"

"Nor should you have to," he said. "But-"

"-And yet you tried to make me choose between the joys of music and the hope of companionship! It is despicable!"

"I fear you may have to, if you do not-"

"-Adelina Patti did not have to choose," she countered. "Pauline Viardot-García did not have to choose. Or Angelica Catalani or Elizabeth Billington, or Henriette Sontag-"

"Yes, but-"

"-or Kristina Nilsson, or Jenny Lind, or Giulia Grisi. And nor will Christine Daae." She drew herself up to her full height and stood proudly before him, so confident and defiant that he didn't dare argue further.

"You are right," he said at last. "Will you still let me help you sing?"

"I do not know."

"Are you angry with me?" he asked stupidly.

"I have never been angrier in my life!" she cried. "I... I think you may very well turn out to be nothing but a scoundrel, for all your tales of woe. The evidence does not weigh very heavily in your favor, Monsieur."

Her words cut him to the quick. The music that was always in his mind died away.

But what she said next gave him hope.

"But God help me, I cannot do without your assistance," she said, sounding as though the words were being dragged from her.

"Oh?" He stared at her in mute longing.

"Yes." She straightened. "I am being considered for the role of the Countess in _Il Muto_ and I cannot prepare for my audition on my own. So... if you have any consideration at all, then if you would be so good as to be at our usual meeting-place tomorrow at three o'clock precisely- and in person, if you please," she said imperiously

His sorrow vanished instantly. He was too happy even to be irritated at being ordered about. Joy surged through him. This was, without question, the happiest moment of his whole life.

A part of him didn't want her to think he could be commanded and summoned like this. But truth to be told, he would have waited for her all night and all day if she'd asked for it. Why should he not admit it? There was no use hiding from the truth. Let her think what she would.

"I am at your service," he said.

"Thank you," Christine said crisply. "That is... good of you. Well, then, good afternoon, Monsieur." And she marched away, her head held high.

In some respects, of course, Erik had to admit the interview had been an unqualified disaster. But he didn't care. Christine had asked to see him again. That was all that mattered.

He stood there, dizzy with elation.

In his mind, the music began to play again.

* * *

 _End of Chapter 4_

 ** _French:_**

 ** _Monsieur = Mr., "sir"._**


	5. Accompagnando

**Chapter 5**

* * *

"What was it you wanted to tell me?" Meg said, as she and Christine emerged from rehearsal that afternoon.

"I don't like the thought of telling you here," Christine said. "Even walls have ears." _Especially in my case, it seems._ "Would you fancy a short stroll?"

"No, I would not fancy a stroll of any length," Meg grumbled, rubbing her aching feet.

"Square Louvois is only a stone's throw from here," Christine said. "It ought to be very pretty on a fine day like this."

Meg's face fell into its most stubborn expression. She stopped dead and folded her arms. "Will you be carrying me there, ducky?"

Christine could see that desperate measures were called for. She deployed the strongest weapon in her arsenal. "What if I were to buy a strawberry tarte for you?" she said, raising her eyebrows.

Meg hesitated. She glanced at Christine out of the corner of her eye. "One of the big ones?" she said.

Christine smiled, though in her mind's eye she could see her spending money for the week flying out the window. "Naturellement, Mademoiselle."

"I shall be ready in ten minutes," Meg said resolutely.

In fact, it took her less than five.

Once they'd left the Opéra, she wasted no time in selecting a pâtisserie on the Rue de la Paix, and swiftly directed Christine to purchase the largest strawberry tarte in the case. It came in a chic pink box, which Meg carried tenderly in her arms like her firstborn child as they made their way to the park.

A compact, leafy quadrangle surrounded by elegant appartement blocs, Square Louvois was one of the few green spaces in that quarter of the city and thus always crowded. It was no small feat finding a secluded spot.

When they at last had secured an empty bench out of the way of the main path, Christine explained to Meg what she had learnt earlier that day.

Meg listened with wide eyes.

"Whatever you do, please don't tell anyone about this," Christine said hurriedly when she'd finished. "Not Marie Jammes, and certainly not Cecile Sorelli-"

"Why?" Meg asked, wiping a bit of tarte off the corner of her mouth. "Shouldn't they be warned? Besides, you've done nothing wrong. Why should you want to hide what's happened?"

"Because I have been the most complete imbecile!" Suddenly Christine's face crumpled in a sob.

Meg jumped. "Oh, kitten," she cooed, grabbing Christine's hand. "You were lonely," she said, showing a bright glimpse of the resolute gentleness that lay hidden beneath her saucy demeanor. "You were only a child when this all began. Of course you wanted to trust the people who helped you."

Christine nodded, taking this in. Already Meg's frank kindness was banishing the fretful darkness from her mind. "I suppose, but..."

"Besides, your singing really has become extraordinary," Meg went on. "You always had a beautiful voice, of course, but now..." She shook her head, for once at a loss for words. "You're not the only person who thought there was something miraculous about it."

Christine shook her head in wonderment. "You're being so kind," she sniffled. "But still... please don't tell any of the girls. I'm not sure the others would be so understanding."

"Very well. I won't for the time being. But we must tell someone." Meg put an encouraging hand on Christine's shoulder. "I know it's late, but I think we ought to go to the management today. Or the police, even."

Christine stiffened. "What?"

"We probably ought to go to the police, and we should certainly tell the management about this," Meg said. "Now, before they leave. They may have some idea what to do. After all, they have been dealing with other strange incidents-"

"-No!" Christine cried, brushing away the last of her tears. Her tone made it perfectly clear she was not merely objecting to the idea of going that day, but to the idea of going to the management at all.

"What?" Meg shrieked.

"Well, we can't go to the police; he hasn't done anything illegal. And surely you don't think I'm going to tell anyone that I thought an angel was talking to me for all these years?" Christine scoffed. She was furious with herself over how absurd the idea sounded, now that she said it aloud in broad daylight. "Everyone already thinks I am mad - the little foreigner with her head in the clouds."

"No-"

"Oh, but yes!" Christine protested. "This would be the final proof they need. I shall be lucky if I don't find myself locked up in some institution."

"Well, then take the Vicomte de Chagny with you," Meg suggested.

"What?" Christine's eyebrows flew up.

"If you're with him, they won't dare sneer at you," Meg said.

"I will do no such thing!" Christine cried. "Can you imagine me telling him about this?"

"Easily. Fling yourself into his arms." To demonstrate, Meg draped herself dramatically across the park bench, causing an expensively dressed couple who were passing by to stare and then hurry away. "Throw yourself on his mercy. Plead for his protection." She folded her arms around herself and swayed dreamily back and forth. "Tell him you won't feel safe without his help. He'll love that. The dear young man is crying out to be some fair young damsel's knight- he'll eat that up with a spoon. You'll have him wrapped around your little finger before dusk. Voilà." She dusted off her hands.

"No," Christine said roundly. "Even if people didn't dare to say what they thought in front of me, they would still say it behind my back. Besides, Raoul would think I was a fool if he ever heard this story. I cannot bear being thought of that way, by him or anyone."

Meg's reply unpleasantly surprised her. "That's very noble, but I'm awfully afraid you will have to learn to tolerate it one way or another," the dancer said cynically. "Every man will think his woman is a fool at some point or another. It's just the way of things. At least the Vicomte would think you're a charming one."

Christine looked away- not before her friend saw the reluctant look on her face, however.

Meg threw up her hands. "What do you expect me to do, ducky? I can't just sit here and do nothing after what you've told me! A masked man has been-"

"Shhhh!"

Meg glared at the interruption. "-A masked man has deceiving you to gain your trust," she went on in an exaggerated whisper, "and you won't let me go to the police or alert the management or even tell our friends!" Returning to her usual voice, she added, "You've tied my hands. Why did you tell me of this if you're only going to let me worry without letting me doing anything about the matter?"

"Meg, please do not mistake me, I am truly grateful that you are concerned for my well-being-"

"-Anyone who cared for you would be," Meg said. She swallowed and went on in a hurry, "Dear, I don't think you're a crazy foreigner, and I certainly don't think you ought to be in any institution (other than a musical one)..."

"But?" Christine said.

"But you've been lonely for so long and suffered so much and I'm awfully afraid this Erik fellow is clever enough to use that against you," Meg said, with real distress in her eyes.

"I see what you must be thinking," Christine said. "But I hope you will trust my judgment when I say that his air, his whole manner, during our meeting today gave me cause to feel reassured. His behavior was entirely respectable-"

"-Respectable?" Meg broke in, outraged. "He admitted he's been deceiving you-"

"-Precisely," Christine interrupted in turn. "He _admitted_ it. If he had any malicious plans based around that scheme of deception, why would he give it up?"

"But what possible respectable reason could there be for any of this?" Meg said. "No one does anything just for nothing. The whole thing is awfully suspicious!"

"I don't know," Christine admitted. "But please, listen - I assure you, I do not value my pride above my safety. You have my word, if anything he does from this moment on gives me even the slightest cause for concern, I _will_ tell the management, and let them think what they will of me."

"Very well." Meg stopped suddenly. "Then do you expect to see him again?"

"What choice do I have? If I lose him, I lose my lessons."

"Yes, but-"

"-Please," Christine said. "You know this is a matter of the utmost importance to me."

"I didn't think it was _this_ important."

"It is," Christine said. "My voice is the only gift I have."

"Oh, aside from beauty, intelligence, charm, an enviable figure-"

"Thank you. But... singing is the closest I come to... to the divine, to better, higher things. God gave it to me for some reason and I must do everything I can with what He has entrusted to me. Do you see?"

"Yes. I suppose so." Meg sighed sadly. "I'm not like you, you know. Not in that way. I don't yearn for the great unknown. I think I see the general idea you're getting at. But..." She trailed off.

"As I said, I will go to the management if I have any concern from this moment onwards," Christine promised. "I'm not so careless as you think, you know," she teased, though with a serious edge to her voice.

"Yes, I know," Meg admitted at last. "You're a sensible girl."

"Thank you," Christine said quietly.

Meg thought, and Christine watched her face in suspense, waiting for a verdict.

"But listen, you must be very careful," Meg said at last.

Christine's whole face brightened at once. "Thank you!" she said in a quite different tone than before.

"Why do you say thank you? Would you have done any differently if I had said no?" Meg pointed out wryly.

"No, I suppose not." Christine smiled briefly. "But it makes me feel a great deal better." She paused, and a grin spread over her face. "Besides, you might blackmail me."

"I would never blackmail you!" Meg said.

"And those are the words of a lady?" Christine cried, feigning a look of outrage. "Have you forgotten when I had that ridiculous crush on Martin Dubois and you made me give you your dessert every day that month to keep it a secret?"

Meg had the decency to blush. "I was only twelve."

"You were fourteen!"

"Well, I am older and wiser now."

"Older, but no wiser," Christine shot back.

"Hmph. Well, I would never blackmail you about this. It's much too serious to be taken lightly." Meg paused. "You must promise you will be careful. Listen - when you go, take the knife Maman made you buy. Or I can lend you mine if you don't have yours."

Christine winced. "I take mine everywhere. Even though you know I hate it. I keep mine with me because you made me promise you I would."

"Good," Meg said. "I'm glad. But listen, don't just have it with you. Make sure it's out where he can see it. He needs to know you're not afraid to defend yourself."

"But it would be terribly rude," Christine protested. "Worse than rude! It would be... why, there isn't a word for it, even, it's-"

"-Ducky, I swear I won't leave your side for a moment if you don't promise me!" Meg shouted.

At last, Christine sighed. "Very well."

Meg relaxed. "Thank you, my dear. Oh, and one more thing- you're staying with Maman tonight. You're not going home by yourself. I don't want this 'Erik' - not a very trustworthy name; is it? - do you suppose he's Prussian? well, anyhow - following you home."

"I confess I like the idea of having someone there," Christine admitted. "And..." A sparkle came into her eyes. "...If I may say so, I'm awfully fond of her chocolate gateau, and I understand she made one recently."

Meg grinned. "Be careful. There's only one slice left- we may have to fight a duel for it."

"A duel to win the honor of its affections?" Christine said.

"Precisely," Meg said, waving a fist in the air. "And you should know that I shall roundly defeat you."

They laughed.

"Poor little Martin Dubois," Meg said suddenly, looking reminiscent. "What possessed you to have a crush on him I shall never understand. He never did find out, did he?"

"No. You were as good as your word," Christine said pointedly. "I suppose you realized it was to your advantage to keep your leverage."

"Well, it's just as well for you," Meg decided. "He's grown uncommonly fat these days."

"Meg!" Christine burst into laughter.

As the they made their way back to Madame Girys' appartement later that evening- Meg was going out again to the café-dansants but had insisted on seeing Christine back there first- they were giggling and chattering like children. But beneath their merriment was a much a bleaker picture. Meg was painfully aware of how little she understood what was going on with Christine's mysterious teacher, and it frightened her.

Christine, however, was excited for the next day. She couldn't think why, and that frightened her even more.

 _End of Chapter 5_


	6. Ritenuto

When a knock sounded on Madame Giry's door at twelve o'clock that night, it no longer surprised her.

Thank goodness Christine was already sleeping, she thought as she padded stealthily to the door. For some reason, she didn't want Erik to know Christine was there. She didn't think for a moment that he would try to see her. But she didn't like the idea of him knowing how mixed up she was in all these events. It was better for him to think their planned meeting was just his and Christine's affair.

"What is it now?" she asked tiredly, stepping into the hall and shutting her door carefully behind her.

"Good evening, Madame." Erik was actually smiling. Not a cynical smirk, either - a genuine, happy smile. "I came to say that you are an angel of goodness and mercy and benevolence and you ought to be canonized."

"Am I?" she said with a small laugh. "Good Heavens. Why is that?"

"I have something more to be grateful for even than usual. Perhaps you've heard; I don't know. If I could, I'd tell the whole globe. Christine has agreed to meet with me again." He was so happy he almost laughed. He couldn't hold still. "She knows who I am - well, as much as I can tell her - and she didn't spurn me!" For a moment, he was too overcome to go on. He shook his head in wonder. "We can meet face to face as fellow-creatures," he said when he was at last able to continue. "It's the most extraordinary thing, you cannot imagine. You were right, Madame. Now that I know what it is to really talk with her, openly and honestly, I can't understand how I ever could have contented myself with anything less."

"I am glad," she said gently. "But now you must go. I have company."

He looked at the door in confusion, as though trying to see through it. "At this hour of the night?"

She smiled disarmingly. "Aren't I allowed to be full of surprises?"

Erik was in too much of a good humor to be his usual suspicious self. "Of course. Well, good night, Madame."

Madame Giry watched him walk away, her mind occupied.

Before, there'd been a chance that this would all be resolved quickly - that Christine would refuse to forgive his deception and that would be the end of it. It might have provoked Erik to even greater despair, or it might have been the most painless way for this to end.

Now, for better or worse, that was not to be.

She couldn't decide if this was good or bad.

* * *

Christine's dressing-room was located in a narrow, obscure corridor of the opera house - Erik had persuaded her to request one there so people wouldn't overhear their lessons; he wanted everyone to be astonished when her talent was revealed. But nonetheless he had a time getting there in the middle of the afternoon without anyone noticing him. Nonetheless, he managed to arrive at Christine's door at two fifty-eight, precisely as he'd intended. He didn't want to waste a single moment with her - this meeting was a precious gift he hadn't expected to get, and he didn't know if he would ever get another one - and yet he feared he would seem overbearing and alarm her if he came too early.

When he knocked, to his delight and relief she answered the door immediately.

As always, his heart leapt when he saw her. She looked radiant in a simple white cotton dress sprinkled with pink flowers, her curls half-escaping from a simple chignon. He, of course, was in the same ensemble as he'd worn yesterday, his one good suit. He hoped she wouldn't notice.  
He needn't have worried. Her mind was clearly on other matters. A sheaf of music was clutched in her hand and she was poring over it intently.

"Good afternoon" she said quietly, looking a bit nervous, and she stood well aside to let him in. "Thank you for coming on time."

"Good afternoon." He squeezed through the narrow doorway, clutching the booklet of music he'd brought with him- all that was left of his once-proud position as music-master- and looked around. To call Christine's dressing-room a 'room' would have been somewhat generous. It would have fit in Carlotta's five or six times over.

'It's a closet with ambition,' Meg had quipped the first time she saw it.

The small, decrepit piano Christine had been lent to use for practicing was wedged awkwarldy into a corner by the far wall.

"I'm afraid you'll be very cramped," she said apologetically, gesturing toward it.

Indeed he would be. He realized suddenly that there was an empty space near the door that would have been a much more logical place for the instrument. In fact, the room would barely have been functional if the piano normally stood where it was now.

Christine must have just moved it over there. In preparation for his arrival, most likely. He understood all at once that she'd deliberately arranged things so he was out of her path to the door. The thought wounded him, he couldn't deny- she really did think the worst of him. But he could scarcely blame her, under the circumstances. He would have done the same thing in her place if the situation were reversed. He was even more distrustful than she was.

"It's no matter," he said quietly. "I have managed with far worse."

As he passed her dressing-table, he saw that she'd placed a small knife prominently beside her. It looked horribly out of place against the delicate bric-à-brac that filled the rest of the room - a photograph of her father in a small, finely wrought silver frame, a tiny carved statuette of a nightingale, a little vase of wildflowers.

He nodded toward the blade as he went past. "A wise precaution, to carry a knife," he said, "Although I fear in a confrontation it may end up up the hands of your enemy." That precise thing had happened to him once. A shiver ran through him, and he shoved the horrible memory away, though he knew it would only come back to haunt him again later. "A pistol might be a better choice."

Christine flushed. She hadn't expected him to acknowledge its presence. "For what it's worth, it was Meg's idea to have it out like that," she said. "She wouldn't leave me alone until I promised - and I can't break a promise to a friend."

He already felt better. It had been Meg's idea, not hers. Perhaps Christine did not think of him quite as badly as he'd feared. "You do not need to explain yourself. I quite understand. It is a brutal world we live in."

"Thank you for not taking offense," Christine said. "That is generous of you."

"Not at all. I am glad you know how to protect yourself. And even more glad you have friends who ensure you do."

Christine was looking at the knife with distaste. "I hate it. It breaks my heart that it's necessary to have one. I don't ever want to do violence to anyone."

"You have not needed it, I hope?" he asked.

"I have not needed to use it, thank God. But-" She paused. "I have needed to... make someone aware that I had it." She blinked.

He thought his blood would boil. "And did they leave you alone?" _Who were they? Where are they? I'll kill them all. I'll tear their heads from their bodies_.

"Yes," Christine said. "It frightened them away. They were cowardly - which I suppose is fortunate for me."

"Then perhaps it is of some usefulness to you."

"Yes, I suppose you are right." She paused, looking as though she had thought of something else and was thinking carefully about how to put it into words. "I should like to ask you something," she said afer a moment.

"Of course."

"A few years ago I mentioned to the Angel- I suppose it was you really- that the head scene-shifter, Buquet, had been... bothering me. Do you remember?"

"Yes," he said.

Chirstine nodded slowly "I suppose... you did tell me to go to the police, I remember now, which I suppose ought to have struck me as an odd thing for an angel to say, though of course I did not think of it at the time; I was too determined to believe in y- in the angel. And then I said it wouldn't do any good, so you said you would make sure he did not trouble me again. You said you would 'put the fear of God in him' - I remember that. And then the next time I saw Buquet he shouted at me that I must be a witch because he'd seen a huge inferno of fire chasing after him, and then the silhouette of a man appeared out of it and said he wasn't to go near Christine Daae and her friends anymore, and he saw a horrible face coming toward him, and then everything was plunged into darkness. He said the ghost and I must be in cahoots, but I don't believe in ghosts. I knew someone must be behind it, though. Was that you?"

"Yes," he said proudly. He smiled fondly at the memory. Buquet had screamed like a child. It had been one of the more enjoyable moments of Erik's life.

"But how did you manage it all?" Christine asked. "I can understand it all going dark; that is simple enough; all one would have to do would be shut off the fuses-"

Erik had to hide a proud smile. _You would make a very respectable Phantom yourself, Mademoiselle, should you ever decide to go into the business._

"-But a fiery inferno?" she finished. "That is beyond my feeble powers of comprehension."

"It was quite simple, really," he said, not without a hint of the theatrical in his delivery. "I suspended a piece of cotton-wool from the ceiling, then soaked it in kerosene and lit it on fire." He couldn't hold back a grin. "It was quite exciting, really. I had always wanted to try something of the kind."

Christine's mouth was a perfect O of horror. "Kerosene? Why, you might have burnt down the whole opera house!"

"I took care," he said.

"Even so, you surely endangered yourself. Why did you go to so much trouble to help me?"

"I despise men who prey on those more vulnerable than themselves," he said. "It's become rather a habit of mine to cause them trouble, I'm afraid. Perhaps it is not laudable, but someone must do something."

"I see. Well," Christine said slowly, "I cannot say I condone your methods, but Buquet has left me and Meg very much alone since then, so I suppose I must be grateful for your, er, assistance." She paused. Suddenly a small smile appeared on her lovely face. "And you must admit, it is very funny. I shall never forget the look on his face when he saw me." Her shoulders began to shake.

Suddenly the two of them were convulsed with mirth. Christine's laugh rang through the room, as sweet and clear as a bell. It was one of the loveliest sounds Erik had ever heard - whether it was as lovely as her singing was a beautiful riddle he didn't think he'd ever be able to solve - and the thought that he had brought it about was almost too marvelous to comprehend.

 _She and I have laughed together,_ he thought in a joyous daze. _I have tasted all the happiness the world can offer._

 _I should not wish for more. It is too much. I am flying too close to the sun as it is._

"And what about the dreadful face?" Christine said suddenly, as though in response to this thought.

He froze. _Yes, what about it?_ "Er- What?"

"He said he saw the most horrible face coming toward him. At the time I didn't think anything of it - angels in real life sound quite terrifying, you know; not at all like the sweet little children in paintings, so it seemed quite natural to me that the angel should be able to frighten people with his face. But now it seems... peculiar."

Erik swallowed. "Er - another mask."

Christine looked puzzled. "He said it was very lifelike."

"That imbecile is always drunk. And I am certain he is no stranger to opium and cocaine and God knows what else. I shudder to think what his tormented imagination could fabricate. It would be better not to contemplate it." Erik turned away and pretending to be looking at the music, his mirth from a moment ago entirely evaporated. "I should not stand about talking all day. Now, you said the Countess' aria from Act III is what you were asked to prepare for the audition?" he asked.

"Oh... Yes. Just as you say," Christine replied, looking a bit surprised by the sudden turn in the conversation.

"It should present no problem for you," he said. "On the whole, the music lacks innovation."

She smiled.

"It drives me mad to think that you are stuck singing this insipid nonsense when you could be singing Juliette or Lakmé," Erik said, shaking his head.

"Perhaps someday I shall," Christine ventured, then flushed, looking as though she had said something very ambitious - which in fact, she had.

He smiled. "Don't blush. You are quite right. Now, there is no time to lose. Let us begin straightaway. Will they allow you to embellish the Countess' candezas?" he asked.

"Yes. I was hoping you might assist me in that," she said.

"Certainly," he replied. "I am glad to hear they are giving you that freedom. With proper embellishment, your coloratura technique can lend the piece a distinction it does not on its own possess."

"Thank you. I have two copies of the music," she said, moving toward a folder on her dressing-table. "Monsieur Reyer lent me-"

"-Oh," he said stupidly, looking down at the booklet of music he was holding.

"Do you have a copy too? Where did you get it?" Christine glanced down at his copy. It was obviously handwritten. She looked up at him in amazement. "Did you write all this out?"

He inclined his head. "I did."

"But... that must have taken you a great deal of time!"

"I do not mind in the slightest," he said. "There could be no better way of spending the time."

"Thank you," she said breathlessly. And then, a few moments later, "Where did you copy it from? It has not been released publicly that I know of. Do you still work at the opera?"

"Er- no," he said. "But I, er, _attended_ rehearsal a few days ago. And then I copied it down later at my writing-desk."

"Do you mean to say you copied the whole aria from memory after hearing it only once?" Christine snatched the manuscript from him, without even realizing it. "And the orchestration too?"

"Yes," he said, bewildered by her look of amazement.

Her eyes flew over the lines of music, comparing his version with the original. "But this is utterly remarkable! These are identical! Even down to the quarter-beat." Suddenly she looked up. Her gaze fixed on him. "Wait. Do you mean to say you copied just the aria from memory-" She paused as though afraid to hear the answer- "...Or all of Act III?"

"Act III," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"My God!" Christine flung her hands out in astonishment. Several sheets of music flew out of her hands and fluttered down around her like enormous white leaves. She scarcely even seemed to notice. She was staring at Erik, her mouth open. "How- how is such a thing possible? Are you sure you're a mortal?"

"It was nothing extraordinary," he said, delighted to have impressed her but genuinely puzzled by her amazement.

Christine laughed. "Au contraire!"

"I imagine you could do the same," he said. He found he was shuffling his feet. As the phantom, he was all bombast and swagger, but with her, he was as awkward as a shy child.

"Forgive me, but I imagine not." Christine shook her head in disbelief. "I have been around musicians all my life, and not a one of them can do what you've done here. I am, I suppose, reasonably competent in harmonic dictation-"

"-Oh, more than competent."

"Thank you," she said. "But that is only because I have devoted hours upon hours of practice to it. And even so I certainly cannot copy down an hour-long, multi-instrumental piece from memory! Does it just come naturally to you?"

"I suppose it does, yes." He had never thought about it before.

She stifled an astonished laugh. "Did you come out of the womb writing music? How old were you when you started to learn?"

"I do not know precisely," Erik said. "My birth did cause considerable consternation for other reasons, though," he added almost without realizing it. He froze, realizing how dangerously close he'd come to admitting his most hatred secret.

It had become too easy to talk with her. The freedom of being able to address her as one human being to another was intoxicating. It was dangerous. He would have to be careful.

If he hadn't already ruined everything just now.

Christine had fallen silent and was peering at him as though trying to work out a difficult puzzle. "I am sorry," she said at last, her voice gentle. She looked as though she were choosing her next words with care. He waited for her to ask what he meant, as though waiting for a blow.

She seemed to realize, however, that if he had wanted her to know more, he would have told her about it. Thus, and to his eternal gratitude, she didn't ask why. "Well," she said simply instead, "You have an extraordinary gift."

"I am honored," he said, stunned by her praise - and by her kindness. There was a pause. "Now, then, let me hear what you have done with the aria so far, if you please."

 _Chapter 6 CONTINUED:  
_

They plunged into the task of studying the piece. Erik was glad. They may be at odds in all other ways, but in this respect they shared the same wishes, the same purpose and ambitions. For these few precious moments, there was nothing but them and the music.

He might have gone on forever, had he not eventually happened to glance up and see the clock on her dressing-table.

"Is... is that right?" he said.

"What is the matter?" Christine said, looking up. "The clock? It has always kept good time."

"Then you ought to have a short étirement and then... be done for the day," he said with enormous reluctance. "Any more and you may overtax your voice - and it is essential that you save it for the audition."

She couldn't see the clock face from where she was standing. "How long has it been?"

"Nearly four hours," he said, scarcely able to believe it. The time had flown by. These moments he was able to snatch with her were never enough. Still, he was delighted that she hadn't tried to end the lesson before now.

"I did not intend to keep you here so long," she said.

He winced. Was that really an apology, or was she trying to get rid of him? "I do not mind," he said.

"That is very kind of you." Christine paused to pour herself a glass of honeyed water from the pitcher she had resting on her dressing-table. "I don't mean to sound immodest, but I think the piece has improved just in these three hours," she said happily.

"It is not immodest," he said. "Yes, it has improved. You've quite resolved that little difficulty with your vibrato in the introduction. And the cadenza sounds far clearer than it did before."

"How can I be as great as you say, if I have so much I still need to learn?" Christine shook her head. "I fear I shall never be ready."

"It shows how much potential you possess," he said.

"Thank you. Still, I... I think would feel more comfortable if I could have another lesson before the audition," she said. "If you do not mind. I would not wish to impose upon you, however."

"That would be..." _Wonderful. Marvelous. Spectacular._ "...Beneficial." He tried to appear indifferent, but inwardly he felt like leaping for joy. "Tomorrow at the same time, then?"

"Yes. Thank you very much indeed."

Erik walked away from the lesson feeling dizzy with his success. Another victory. It hardly seemed possible that so much could go the way he wanted.

His luck had to run out soon. The plumes on his wings were already starting to fall away.

 _End of Chapter 6_


	7. E che annega l'umor nero

**_Chapter 7_**

* * *

 _Viva il vino Che ci allieta ogni pensiero (Here's to the wine that makes every thought a happy one)_

 _E che annega l'umor nero (And that drowns a black humour)_

 _Nell'ebbrezza tenera (In soft intoxication)_

-'Cavalleria Rusticana', lyrics by Guido Menasci

* * *

 ** _Music suggestion:_ 'The Carnival of Venice' - Niccolo Paganini and Joshua Bell**

* * *

Over the next few weeks a peculiar sort of friendship developed between them. A friendship full of secrets on both sides and deceit on his, but somehow deep and genuine in spite of it.

Christine began to notice something curious. She liked him even better as a human being than she had as the Angel.

Every day she found herself thinking how glad she was that she knew the truth about him now. Her lessons with him were the highlight of each day; Mondays, when she rested her voice and so they didn't meet, seemed to drag by.

On those days, she would often devise an excuse to meet anyway, ostensibly to discuss her repertoire, but always they ended up talking about every subject under the sun, never seeming to tire of each other's conversation.

 _It doesn't make sense,_ she often found herself thinking. _I shouldn't like a man who insists on wearing a mask everywhere he goes. Honest people don't do that. It isn't natural._

 _Perhaps people are right about me. Perhaps I am wrong in the head after all._

* * *

The Opéra Populaire's new production of _Il Muto_ was to open in a month. Following an unusual decision by the managers - one that threw the entire company into disarray and sent Monsieur Reyer and the artistic director into paroxysms - La Carlotta would be sharing the role of the Countess with Mademoiselle Christine Daae, who would be her alternate during matinee performances and on Saturdays.

Only La Carlotta and the managers were happy with this turn of events. The great diva relished her days off as an opportunity to inform everyone what an extraordinarily fragile instrument her own voice was, as though that somehow was proof of its rarity and quality. She took to spraying her throat with salt water from an ornate golden bottle at frequent intervals, and sometimes refused to speak for whole days (a state of affairs which didn't trouble anyone except herself), which she thought would add to her mystique.

"It is a heavy burden I bear," she was often heard saying on the frequent occasions when she deigned to break her vow of silence.

But if that was true, it was a burden she relished.

Christine, for her part, was happy too.

Her voice had blossomed. She was able to do things with it that she would not have believed possible even a year ago.

Privately, she could not help agreeing with Erik that the opera was rather insipid. But she didn't much care. She was being given the chance to sing, and that was all that really mattered to her. She would have sacrificed almost anything for that.

However, the city's rumor mill assumed another reason for her happiness.

They had read in the gossip columns that after her first night in the role, a certain Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, had thrown a party in her honor in a private dining-room at the Café Anglais, in which the crème de la crème of Paris society had assembled to fête her gifts.

How could a young lady - a penniless foreigner, no less - who had attracted the attention of one of the richest and most celebrated young men in the country not be glad? Nothing else could possibly be required for a woman's happiness.

And indeed, Christine was pleased with his attention - delighted that he remembered her, even if a bit shocked that he wanted all his illustrious friends to meet her.

Though the occasion fell on a Saturday, when the opera ran the production twice and she was certain to be exhausted well before nightfall, there seemed no way to say no.

And so, that evening, she hastily sponged off her makeup and threw aside her costume as soon as the opera was over, and a few minutes later she found herself drawing up to the elegant façade of the Café Anglais, decked out in a rented gown and jewels.

It was evident at once that Raoul had outdone himself. He had rented a vast private room, which she was escorted to at once by an obsequious and attentive maître d'hôtel, and inside a harpist was playing and waiters were dispensing champagne by the magnum. A horde of distinguished-looking and attractive guests had already gathered, most garbed in elegant black or white.

When she entered, still awkwardly fastening a bracelet around her wrist, immediately glasses were raised in the air and her name was cried out from all quarters.

Raoul, a delighted expression on his amiable face, pushed his way through the crowd to claim her, and she was circulated from guest to guest, names she had read in the papers flying through the air as she struggled to remember everyone she was introduced to. There were industrialists, aristocrats, politicians, even minor royalty.

All had words of praise; all wore ingratiating smiles.

It was overwhelming. She kept wanting to turn to Meg or some other of her friends to whisper wry remarks in her, and remembering with a jolt that she was not here.

Above all, she wished Erik could be here. He deserved to share in the praise.

And indeed, that was not the only reason. Suspicious though he was, his peculiar, curt behavior would have been strangely comforting to her. She could practically hear his sneering remarks. She would have relished them. It would have been a kind of buffer between her and these supercilious strangers.

She felt utterly alone here. She knew she was not one of them. They did not try to make her feel otherwise.

And indeed, they were scarcely on the fish course - a tender _sole dijonaise_ \- before they turned on her.

It started as a extravangantly moustachioed marquis, one of the luminés of the event, turned to her and cleared his throat. "You are not from here originally, Mademoiselle?" he said, with polite but pointed interest.

"No, Monsieur le Marquis." Christine restrained a sigh. It seemed that no matter how many years you had lived among the French, if you had not been born there, you were never truly one of them.

"What do you remember of your childhood before you were brought here?" her inquisitor went on.

This was a test.

She could tell them the truth. _There was no work for poor Papa._ _Sometimes there was no money for months at a time. Is that the story you wanted to hear?_ But she could not say that. Her father would be humiliated if anyone had ever found out that he could not provide for his little child.

"Very little, I am afraid," she evaded.

"Oh?"

She was going to have to lie her way through. Lie, or do a very neat job of manipulating the truth. "We were not wealthy, but we were honest and free." _Really, Christine, you sound like a yellow-backed novel._

"Where were you, precisely?" another well-bred voice inquired from somewhere nearby.

 _We lived in the middle of nowhere,_ Christine thought.

"We were in a market town. Near Uppsala," she said, though that was an exaggeration; they had lived in a remote hamlet that didn't even have its own doctor. "There were, ah, some spectacular views of the countryside."

"Uppsala? Where the university is?" a lady's voice chimed in.

"Yes, precisely." Christine smiled, pleased that someone knew what she was talking about.

"A magnificent city," the lady pronounced decisively. "But the Swedish countryside is equally splendid. What was it like to grow up in such a beautiful place?"

 _People shunned us for our poverty._

"The solitude and seclusion were... refreshing," Christine invented. "The countryside... had a wild, rugged beauty about it."

 _Sometimes all we had to eat was the plants we could gather._

"When it was warm, we would pick wildflowers in the meadows," she went on. "Basket after basket. And sometimes there were wild strawberries, too."

But her audience did not notice the gaps in her narrative. They lapped up this idyllic vision just as if they had been reading a pastoral novel, or gazing upon a Watteau painting. It was what they wanted from her.

"Whatever made you want to leave such a paradise?" someone said.

Christine recalled the week of their journey. The bone-chilling cold of the third-class carriage that had brought her and her father to Paris. The coal smog that had settled into every crevice of the Gare du Nord, making it look more like a menacing cave than a hub of modern transport. Most of all, she remembered the grief and desperation in her father's dark eyes.

That desperation had paid off. In Paris, his gifts had been celebrated. He'd been famous, and, what mattered far more to her, respected.

But typhoid fever had no more regard for artists than it did for anyone else. And seeing him buried in a magnificent crypt in the city's most famous cemetery had been a cold consolation at best to his orphaned child.

Beating down the sickening wave of grief that suddenly rose inside her, Christine forced herself to smile disarmingly. "Who could resist the glitter and excitement of the most beautiful city in the world?"

This answer, of course, seemed perfectly reasonable to her Parisian audience.

She was relieved beyond words when this particular interrogation was over. But as the meal was drawing to a close and the guests were standing around in groups eating elegantly molded ices, it was replaced by another subject she liked little better.

A composer she'd met earlier, one of a whirlwind of wealthy and celebrated musicians who had been presented to her that evening, wove his way through the crowd surrounding her and cornered her by a window.

He was one of the few guests that evening who Christine had not felt an instinctive dislike for. Though he was said to possess immense personal wealth, enough that he could have lived out the rest of his days without lifting a finger, he lacked the air of idleness of many of the other guests. Rather, he had used his good fortune to become, it was said, one of the foremost composers of his generation.

"A triumph this evening, Mademoiselle," he said with a genial smile. "Truly a triumph."

"I thank you, Monsieur. You are very gracious."

"You must have found a very good instructor indeed," he said.

"Well-"

"-You must tell me his name - my daughter wishes to become a singer, and she will not be satisfied unless she studies with whoever taught Mademoiselle Christine Daae. Where might I look him up? Is he currently accepting new students?"

"You are very kind," she said, taken aback, for Erik had made her promise she would not tell anyone about their lessons yet. She should have fabricated some story for occasions like this. The question had been bound to come up at some point; it was a miracle it had not before. "I am deeply grateful to you, and to your daughter for her high opinion," she said. "But I fear you must disappoint her. I... do not have an instructor."

"But you must."

"I do not. That is what it says in all the reviews," Christine pointed out.

He smiled. "I know that is what they are saying in the gossip-columns. But you cannot fool me - you are not talking to an amateur. It is impossible to obtain such a faultless technique without a knowledgeable instructor."

"Thank you for the compliment, Monsieur." Christine was pleasantly surprised by this rumor. "But my technique is not faultless-" _As Erik reminds me with every note-_ "and I am indeed self-taught."

The composer blinked at her. Was it just her imagination, or was he beginning to look annoyed?

"It is not unheard-of for a singer to study by herself," she ventured.

"Not a singer of your caliber," the composer said. "Not the sopranos who are fortunate enough to grace the stage of the foremost opera company in this great empire." He lowered his voice. "Mademoiselle, I admire your artistry. But I don't think much of performers who keep secrets in order to impede the progress of others who may have similar aspirations. You were not always a celebrity, after all. And I think still less of artists who imagine that their success is due entirely to their own genius, rather than to the myriad efforts of all those who assisted them along the way. Your instructor deserves better than to be denied by his pupil."

 _Yes, he does,_ Christine thought sadly.

At this point, Raoul, who had been looking back and forth between them as though watching a tennis match, finally broke in. "Monsieur, I do not like what you are insinuating about Mademoiselle. If she says she has no instructor, then it is the truth. And your choice of time and place to make such accusations was extremely poor."

He and the composer stared at each other for a moment. Finally, the older man nodded curtly. "I hope Mademoiselle will forgive me," he said. "She understands, I hope, that my intentions were good." But his expression was dark. He spun on his heel and walked away.

"How dare he speak to you thus?" Raoul said in outrage, as they watched him go. "It was a mistake inviting him. I am sorry."

"It was kind of you to leap to my defense, but he was right to say those things," Christine said weakly. "And I am not sure you should defend me. He can tell when a singer is professionally trained."

Raoul stared at her with a lost expression. "Yes... But you would not lie." He looked as though the idea were unimaginable. "Surely not."

 _Life for me has become a great deal more complicated since we were children._ "Thank you for your faith in me. I am not at all sure I deserve it." Christine sighed, weighing a difficult alternative in her head. She did not want to risk Erik finding out that she had broken their pact. But she could not bear to lose Raoul's regard for her. "I want you to know the truth. But you must not tell anyone of this. I know I can trust you with this secret, my old friend."

"Secret?" Raoul said.

"I do have an instructor," Christine admitted.

He blinked. "But you said-"

"-He does not want me to tell anyone about him," Christine said. "He is very particular about that point."

"Why should teaching you be a secret?" Raoul said, looking annoyed. "He ought to be proud you are his pupil."

"Thank you," Christine said. "But he is proud. He tells me every day how delighted he is with my progress. He said he wishes everyone could know that he is my teacher." She smiled at the recollection.

"Then why-?"

"-He shrinks from society," Christine said, explaining as much as she could understand of the matter herself. "He is very shy, I believe. And... slightly eccentric." Another immense understatement.

"Some crotchety old fellow?" Raoul said with a smile.

"He isn't old."

Raoul's frown deepened.

"He certainly is irritable, however," Christine said, laughing to herself. "He despises the whole human race."

"I don't see why a genius like that should have to be shy, or a misanthrope," Raoul said. "In fact, I don't believe most people who set themselves up as recluses have a good reason to shun society. It is easy enough to make friends. One merely has to make one's self agreeable, which isn't nearly as difficult as some people seem to think."

Christine smirked. "That is easy for you to say. You come from one of the best families in the country. And you are handsome and charming. Everyone wants to please you - of course it is easy for you to make friends. Everyone finds you agreeable."

Raoul heard only one part of this speech. "You think me handsome?" he said blissfully.

The look of happiness on his face was so open and artless that Christine could only smile. "Everyone does, you know."

"But your opinion is more worth having."

"Thank you," she said, touched.

"Or perhaps you think I would not make friends easily if I was not a de Chagny?" Raoul said with a sudden look of irritation.

"I didn't say that," Christine said, annoyed in turn. "When I became friends with you, you told me you were just little Raoul Martin from the village, do you recall?"

Raoul laughed. "Yes. A habit I acquired very early. It is a habit I have had to give up, though, I am afraid."

"If only things were still as simple as they were in childhood." Christine suddenly felt overwhelmed by the vastness of the gap between their last meeting and now.

"Yes, but they aren't. We all have to give up our childish habit of hiding whenever it strikes us as convenient," Raoul said irritably. "Someday this mysterious instructor of yours will have to as well. That is precisely my point."

"Perhaps he may," Christine said. "I hope he may choose to come out of hiding, someday. But I cannot force him to."

"Why do you use his services, instead of someone else's, if he forces you into dishonesty and concealment?"

Christine laughed, surprised by his naïveté. "I cannot afford anyone else, of course!"

"There must be someone competitive to his rate," Raoul said. "Someone who would not impose all these absurd conditions."

"Not at the rate he charges me," Christine said.

"What does he charge-"

"-Never mind that." Christine had a feeling Raoul would be further infuriated if she knew Erik was teaching her for nothing. "I thought people like you think it's vulgar to talk about money. I had to bring up the matter, but I did not expect you to continue with the subject."

Raoul clamped his handsome mouth shut, surprised by her brusqueness.

"Besides, I do not think I could find another instructor like him," Christine said. "He does things that I do not think any other man could do."

"You speak of him as though he were a god or an angel or something!" Raoul cried.

"No, he certainly is no angel. I am perfectly aware of that," Christine said. It must have been the restaurant's ample supply of wine that prompted her to add, "You sound jealous. Well, there is no call to be. I am here with you, after all, am I not?"

"Yes," Raoul said, softening at once. "I was _not_ jealous." Then, "What did you say his name was?"

"I didn't. It is Alphonse Masson, if you must know."

"Hm."

"It was remarkable how much I learned from him even in a short space of time," Christine continued. "Soon I hardly knew myself when I sang with him..."

Though he couldn't put his finger on it, something about the look in her eyes as she said that disturbed Raoul deeply. From that moment on he began to feel an unreasoning grudge against Christine's mysterious teacher, and formed a sudden resolve to find out more about him.

 _End of Chapter 7._

 _ **Notes:**_

 **If you were wondering about the characters' ages in this, Christine and Raoul are in their early 20's, and the Phantom is in his early- to mid-30's, as he appears.**

 **In most respects I'm trying to be as faithful to the movie as possible. But** **I had to make a couple alterations. I know Christine was played by a 16-17-year-old and Patrick Wilson was in his thirties when he played Raoul. But this can't be the actual ages of the characters, because...**

 **1\. as someone astutely pointed out, it doesn't make sense that they could have been childhood sweethearts if they weren't the same age or very close**

 **and**

 **2\. Even in that era, it would be extremely unlikely that a wealthy, aristocratic man would be thinking of getting married if he was still in his teens.**

 **With regard to appearances, I'm having Raoul and Christine look more or less the same as in the movie, although I'm picturing Raoul younger and a little less modern-looking, and I'm hoping he got a haircut... :)**

* * *

 **French:**

 **Mademoiselle = Miss, or, when addressing someone, "ma'm"**


	8. Bellicoso

**Chapter 8**

* * *

"I have a piece of news concerning your instructor," he said to her one afternoon a few days after the party, as they were taking a picturesque stroll through the Jardins des Tuileries.

It was a sunny Monday afternoon. She had wanted to stay inside and work on her music, but he had happened to stop by the opera house (he had learned that it was her habit to practice there), and his persistent friendliness, aided by the splendid weather they were having that day, had persuaded her to come outside.

"My instructor?" she said. "What news could you have of him?"

"I believe his name was Monsieur Masson?" Raoul went on.

Christine jumped as his words sank in.

Despite the warm sun, a chill had run down her spine. "How did you learn his name? I did not tell you. Indeed, I told no one except for..." _No. Surely not. Meg wouldn't!_

"...Your friend Mademoiselle Giry told me," said Raoul, confirming her suspicions.

"Why would she do that?"

"She agreed my concerns about him are not unreasonable."

"She should never have... I am outraged..."

"Don't you want to know what I discovered?"

"Discovered?" Christine scoffed, though inwardly, she could not help but admit her curiosity was getting the better of her.

"Yes. Well, first, I am convinced 'Alphonse Masson' is an alias."

"Hmph. That's only because your name is Anatole Raoul Pierre Georges-Marie de la Martynière Beaumarchais, Vicomte de Chagny," Christine said tartly. "You think anyone with a good honest ordinary name is suspicious."

"It is not because of that," Raoul said. Outwardly he looked irritated, but inwardly he was pleased that she remembered his whole name after all these years - even his own parents sometimes mixed it up. "It is because I had Gregoire-" Gregoire was his valet- "-look up Monsieur Masson at the telephone exchange, and he found that-"

"-You have done what?" Christine cried.

"I looked Monsieur 'Alphonse Masson' up at the Paris telephone exchange. All five of them, that is," Raoul said scathingly.

Christine gasped. "I told you you must keep it a secret! He strictly stipulated that I was not to tell a soul! What if he refuses to teach me anymore? Then what shall I do? Did you think of that?"

"I shall pay for another instructor, if you wish," Raoul said.

"Thank you," she said, a bit taken aback by his unwarranted generosity, "but one cannot switch instructors as easily as that."

"But surely it is better than having one who is disreputable."

"I don't want another instructor!" she cried, startling herself with her zeal.

Raoul looked at her in alarm. "You may be upset, but all this was necessary," he said primly. "And I think you shall be glad I did conduct this investigation. You see, not one of those Alphonse Massons teaches music. What do you say to that, _hein_?"

"You should not have done that!" Christine cried.

"So you think, then, that I was wrong to be concerned?" Raoul said. "You still think there is nothing suspicious about any of this?"

"I think the Monsieur Masson who teaches me cannot afford a telephone," Christine said irritably. "Had that occurred to you? Not everyone can afford to have a personal telephone in his house like you."

"Then what I am to do? Am I to go hunting down every Alphonse Masson in the country? Shall I go door to door?" he said mockingly. "What am I to do?"

"Nothing at all! I do not wish for you to make any more investigations! Can I speak any more plainly?"

Raoul paused. "If I agree to that," he said at last, "you must promise you will find out what you can about him."

"Why should I make any promise of the kind?" Christine demanded, jabbing her parasol angrily into the ground as she walked. "None of this is your affair!"

"I am concerned for you!" he cried.

She stopped and swung to face him. "Monsieur de Chagny, let me be frank. I cherish your friendship. I value your esteem. But this 'concern' you profess for me at every turn grows burdensome. You seem to regard it as a license to meddle in all my affairs, and disregard all my wishes in the name of my best interest. I am not accustomed to being treated in this way."

"Don't you understand I am frightened for you?" Raoul cried. "Don't you understand that... for God's sake! Christine..."

Christine stood silent.

Raoul's face hardened.

There was a pause that grew painfully long.

"I think," he said at last, his voice icy, "That we had better return." And he coldly held out his arm.

* * *

Erik watched glumly as the de Chagny carriage rolled away from the opera house. He had been frantic when he didn't see Christine return - til he realized that the Vicomte had left her at the main entry, instead of taking her around to the employees entrance where she usually went. Evidently when one was a member of a family who owned half of Paris, one could take such liberties.

Erik had had the chance to observe the young aristocrat closely on his frequent trips to the opera house. The fop was obviously determined to win Christine for himself. Whether as his wife or his mistress, it wasn't clear. It scarcely mattered which to Erik. Either way, she would be lost to him forever.

He could not simply continue to stand idly by while that arrogant little good-for-nothing robbed him of his very heart and soul. Pretending Christine meant no more to him than a pupil... that was becoming impossible. But declaring his love for her was equally unimaginable. There was no way out. This was driving him mad.

* * *

"It occurred to me," Christine said to Erik at the end of their next lesson, striving for a casual tone, "Despite all these years, you and I hardly know one another."

This remark only served to further Erik's agitation. "I think we do. The important things. You know I am fond of Mendelssohn, for example, and I know that you-"

"-Well, we know most of the important things," she went on. "We know about music and books and so on... but not much about one another's lives."

He glanced toward her out of the corner of his eye. "You told me all of your history when you thought I was the Angel, so I can only assume that you mean that _you_ don't know as much as you would like about _me_."

"I can see it is impossible to deceive you."

He smiled. "Yes."

"Well?"

"Well, what?" he said coyly.

She sighed.

He hid a chuckle.

"Don't be disingenuous," she said.

"Hmph."

"Meg thinks you have a tragic history," she ventured.

"Oh?"

"She thinks you were once the lord of a great manor, but your enemies burned down your castle, murdered your beautiful, aristocratic wife, stole your child, and banished you forever, and you must wear a mask so they do not find you." Christine grinned. "That is one of her less dramatic theories."

"She has been reading too many romantic novels."

"Oh, she knows that," Christine laughed.

"And you?" he said. "What do you think?"

"I think you are a Prussian spy. Though what useful information you could gain from an unremarkable Swedish soprano transplanted to Paris, I do not know."

"In no way unremarkable," he said.

She smiled uncertainly.

He swallowed. "Well, I am sorry to disappoint you," he said, "but there isn't a great deal to know about me."

"That is not true. There is a great deal to know about everyone."

"Hmph. You'll never need to know any of that about me."

"But I should like to," she said, "If you do not mind."

"Mm."

"Have you any family? If not, you need not be ashamed of it with me- I haven't a relation in the world, as you know, except for the Girys, who have been so kind to me."

"Didn't anyone ever inform you that we French think it impolite to ask personal questions?" He kept his tone light, not wanting her to guess how monstrous his secrets were.

"Well, I am Swedish," she answered in a similarly playful voice. She smiled. "Where were you brought up? You were born near Rouen, I believe you said?"

He suppressed a sigh. Though he didn't like to admit it, he couldn't resist anything she asked of him. It had only been a question of how long he could hold out. "Yes. My family - well, my mother - lives in a little town not far from there. My father was a mason." _Or perhaps he still is._ Erik didn't even know whether he was alive. He cared still less.

"You must have gone to see the cathedral, then?"

Erik paused. His family had never done anything like that. But he was damned if he was going to tell her that. "Yes. My parents would take me, and my brother and sister, there at Christmas-time, to see the decorations. And if we behaved they'd take us to the holiday market afterward to buy gingerbread." He smiled as though this were a particularly happy memory.

"It sounds lovely," Christine said. "You're very fortunate, to have grown up near such a place."

He knew she meant no harm by it, but the remark rubbed him the wrong way. _Fortunate indeed_ , he thought bitterly. "Yes," he said, drawing the word out into almost a growl.

Christine did not seem to notice. "What are your brother and sister's names?"

"Jean," he invented. "And Marie."

"Are they alive?"

What? Did she know he was lying? "What sort of a question is that? I am not eighty years old, you know."

"Forgive me. One never knows. I was very ill as a child. I almost didn't... And Meg, you know, had a poor little baby brother who... That was before I knew the Girys." She trailed off.

Erik blanched. He had never known that. What a stupid, selfish fool he was.

All at once he felt he had some idea why Madame Giry had looked after him so closely all those years.

Christine had fallen silent.

Even Erik could see he was obligated to get the conversation up and going again.

"They still live in Rouen," he managed at last. Well, that was where Marie had been, the last he had heard of her. Jean could be wherever Erik wished. Imaginary people were remarkably obliging in that way.

"I see," Christine said. "And your fa-"

"-I don't know. He left us. I was a child."

"I am sorry," she said.

"We were well rid of him." _Well, this is going marvelously, Erik! You ought to host dinner parties._

"Rouen is beautiful, I am told," Christine ventured after a moment

"Yes, I suppose it is, in its way."

"And less crowded and expensive than Paris."

"Yes."

"Whatever made you decide to leave?" she asked.

Erik's mind flew back to the day of his arrival in Paris. How he had been dragged here in chains. How he had eventually emerged from the cellars beneath the opera house, fled to a foreign land, and built a new life for himself ... only to be driven back to the same desolate cave by a monarch's murderous rage.

He shrugged and smiled. "Who could resist the most beautiful city in the world?"

"I see," Christine said, lapsing into thought.

Her mind whirled. It was precisely what she had said, when they asked her. The same benevolent lie.

"Christine?" came Erik's voice.

She shook herself out of her reverie. "You live here in Paris now, I take it?"

"Yes," he said. "Here in the opera district, as a matter of fact." It wasn't quite a lie...

Her delicately arched eyebrows went up. "Good Heavens. I suppose you inherited a fortune?"

He smiled. "Hardly. I should go buy a castle in Scotland, live there by myself, and never speak to anyone."

She grinned. "A very agreeable plan. I should like that enormously. I suppose you have had other pupils?"

"No," he said. "I didn't find anyone who I thought was worth the trouble until I heard your voice."

"Thank you," she said. "But... then..." Again, she stopped.

"How do I earn my keep?"

"Er... well..." She blushed.

He smiled at her look of confusion. "Am I bewildering you?"

"Yes," she admitted. "A little."

"Good," he said with a smile. "It is rather enjoyable being an enigma."

She looked at him warily.

"My, er, apartment - if you can call it that - is unimpressive," he explained. "Hardly a desirable property. It is underground. It doesn't even have any windows."

She looked puzzled. "Is it legal to advertise a room as an _appartement_ if it doesn't have any windows?"

That hadn't occurred to him. He'd never bothered to look at properties and the rules governing them - he already knew no-one would rent to him. He shrugged. "So far no-one has objected."

"I see. Well, I won't tell anyone." Christine smiled. "You make me feel better about my appartement. It is just a minuscule little attic but it does have a lovely large window and a little balcony. I live in Montmartre, so things are nowhere near as expensive as in the Opéra district. Perhaps you could move there," she said. "Then at least you ought to be able have a window. And your neighbors would be artists and musicians, instead of snobby old ladies with their poor ridiculous little dogs."

He smiled. "I wish I could," he said sincerely. It sounded like precisely the sort of place where he would have liked to live, if he'd had a normal life. For the briefest of moments, an image stole into his head of him and Christine, married, living in an ordinary little house with a garden on some quiet, pretty street in Montmartre. He was normal - handsome, even. He would be a composer. Not strictly famous, but respected in his field. She would have her singing career, be celebrated everywhere as she deserved. In the evenings, they would play and sing together. He could take his wife out, to concerts or the park, on Sunday afternoons like other men. They would have neighbors and friends. Perhaps a dog, if she wanted one. And perhaps eventually, there might be children.

It was perfect. A peaceful, gentle existence like that would be everything he wished for. He didn't ask for power or glory. He didn't want to rule over others. All he wanted was a simple, quiet, honest life. God, why had that innocent wish been barred to him? Why was he forced to be a creature of shadow and lies? "Alas," he said, recalling himself. "I am trapped here."

"Trapped?" she said, looking distressed. "But why?"

"It is rather complicated - and doesn't make for very pleasant conversation." The way the discussion was turning was making him uncomfortable. He took his watch from his waistcoat pocket and pretended to be very interested in the time. "Forgive me - I am afraid I must go. A very urgent appointment. I must not be late." And he darted out of the room, leaving Christine more confused than ever.

* * *

After these revelations, Christine could not resist conveying the new information she had learned to Raoul, if only to see his reaction. Her invitation to take a stroll together was sufficient incentive for him to agree to bury their differences for the time being. He met her outside the Opéra during a break in rehearsal and soon they were ambling down the Rue de la Paix.

"He lives in the Opéra district?" Raoul repeated.

"There, you see?" Christine said, pausing to peer at a particularly splendid pavé bracelet twinkling like an ice crystal in a jeweler's window. "It may not be the Faubourg Saint-Germain, but it is respectable."

Raoul pounced. "I daresay someone with a residence on a boulevard near the opera house can afford a telephone after all."

"No, I am sure he cannot," Christine said. She turned back to Raoul. "His appartement sounds perfectly miserable. It is underground. It doesn't even have any windows." She felt a sudden flood of pity for Erik.

"Have you seen it?" Raoul said, somehow managing to look both alarmed and skeptical at the same time.

"No!" Christine said, her attention now fully pulled away from window-licking.* "I would not go to a gentleman's home unaccompanied! I may be quite mad but I am not a fool. He told me of it, after I made the inquiries you insisted I make."

"If you have not seen it, then how do you know he is telling the truth?"

Christine felt her temper flare unexpectedly. It was curious - though there was no logical reason for it, hearing Erik insulted made her feel she had somehow been insulted as well. Suddenly she was his attorney, arguing his case as though her whole future depended on it. "If he was going to lie, don't you think he would go in the other direction and invent a palatial residence for himself?" That is what I would do. He does not know you are trying to verify that he is poor, so what reason would he have to invent a tale of misery?"

"I suppose," Raoul admitted reluctantly.

"Yes." Christine cast her eyes about for a café; she had a sudden craving for sweets, as she did whenever she was annoyed.

Suddenly Raoul got a gleam in his eye. "Very well."

"What is it?" Christine said warily.

"Perhaps I have allowed myself to be blinded by prejudice," Raoul said, producing a smile. "In the interest of fostering more cordial relations between us, therefore, what do you say to this: Won't you give him my card?"

"I am not sure he has a card," Christine said.

"He must - he has a business. Don't look at me like that," Raoul said. "What harm can there be in one respectable gentleman asking another to pay a simple social call?"

Christine sighed. It was a burdensome request, but perhaps if she carried it out, Erik's rejection would finally make Raoul understand that his enquiries were fruitless. They were both being absurd; let them deal with one another and leave her out of the matter. She pried open her slim leather handbag and slid the card inside. "Very well."

Raoul's efforts in this direction did not go unrewarded. A few days later the following message arrived at his flat:

 _Most exalted Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny,_ it began.

Raoul was accustomed to being addressed in this way by people who wanted his money or favor, and thus the sarcasm escaped him. Expecting a contrite message from a gentleman eager to make amends, he read on.

 _I thank you for the card you sent me. It has a place of pride on my mantlepiece, I assure you. I am honored that you have thus expressed interest in music lessons._

"What?" the Vicomte roared. Was someone playing him for a fool?

 _But since my last student was the daughter of a marquis,_ he read on, _you will easily comprehend how my clients might be offended were I to take on a vicomte as a client._ _(For Mademoiselle Christine Daae, who referred you to me, I was willing to make an exception because though she has no title, in contrast to you, her talents, industry, and capacity to learn were obvious.)_

Whether or not the double meaning of this last sentence had been intentional, there could no longer be any doubt that he was being carelessly dismissed, if not outright insulted. Raoul read the last sentence with clenched teeth.

 _This is not the first time you have tried to meddle in my affairs. I would appreciate it if in future you would refrain from such intrusions. It really is exceedingly bad for business._

 _I remain, Monsieur, your obedient servant,_

 _A. M._

This interesting missive accomplished one thing for certain. From then on Raoul's dislike of 'your obedient servant, A. M.' was set in stone.

* * *

 ** _End of Chapter 8._**

 _*French word for window-shopping ("faire du lèche-vitrines"). It's so great I couldn't resist putting it in._


	9. Diabolus In Musica

**Chapter 9**

* * *

 _ **The innocence of your champion ,would soon be tarnished ,**_

 _ **if he had to tell of the magic ,**_

 _ **that gives him such power! ,**_

 _ **If you do not dare ask him,** **,we will all rightfully believe** **,that you yourself are torn with worry,** **,that his innocence is not what it seems!**_ **-Lohengrin, Richard Wagner**

 **(Music suggestions:'The Master is Painting' by Alexandre Desplat)**

* * *

Erik's heart was in his throat throughout Christine's next lesson. He wondered if she could hear the nervousness in his voice. Surely it must be obvious.

For he had finally devised a way to hint at his affection for her - the closest, perhaps, that he could ever come to telling her he loved her. He wasn't sure what frightened him more - that she wouldn't understand it, or that she would.

The end of the lesson arrived. He drew in a shaky breath. If he did not take this chance now, he would never find the courage. "If I may," he said as Christine turned to go, "I took the liberty of bringing a gift for you." And he held out a package.

She took it with a smile of surprise.

He thought of cautioning her that it was fragile, but it was unnecessary - as she thanked him sweetly, her small, careful hands held it as gently as though it were a bird.

"May I open it?" she asked, and he nodded - though the idea made him uneasy, he found it difficult to deny any request of hers.

She gently peeled back leaves of silvery tissue to reveal what was inside. It was a small, delicate painting of her singing onstage. He'd spent weeks on it.

She wore her dress from the gala where she'd made her debut- he couldn't stand the ridiculous wig and panniers they made her wear in _Il Muto_ \- and the expression he loved best on her, her face alive with the joy of music.

Christine's eyes widened as she looked up at him. "Thank you. Did you paint this?" He swallowed. Why was it so hard to admit? "I did," he said, feeling as though he were in confession. Christine didn't reply at first. Her gaze went back to the painting. He couldn't read her expression.

"Have I done wrong? Have I offended you?" he asked anxiously.

"No. Not at all. Quite the contrary- I am honored." She looked up. "Forgive me - I never thought anyone would create a painting of me."

Was he imagining it, or were there tears in her eyes? "I am certain I will not be the last," he said. "You have seen the portraits of the great singers in the gallery?"

"Yes." Suddenly, to his surprise, a mischievous grin spread over her face. "The staff aren't supposed to go in there, but Meg and I used to love to sneak in and look at the portraits. It nearly drove poor Madame Giry to distraction." She paused. "I always dreamed of being up on those walls."

"You shall be," he assured her, "and sooner than you think, I daresay. And then no-one will dare try to stop you from going in."

This made her smile. As always, he added that to his list of his most cherished accomplishments. emFinished the first act of my opera. Mastered Paganini's Caprices. Made Christine smile - twice!

"You are much too kind," she said.

"Not at all," he said. "Kindness is not one of the virtues I am known for."

She grinned. "Well, I shall treasure this," she said. "This is the only picture of me I have ever liked. Meg thinks it great fun for us to go and have our photograph taken in ridiculous old clothes."

Erik smiled.

"She always looks lovely, naturellement. But I always look so gloomy and ghostly in photographs," Christine lamented. "Impossible," he said.

Their eyes met.

She turned away, smiling shyly. "So then... you are an artist as well as a musician?" she ventured after a moment, clearing her throat. "Well. I suppose. Yes." She shook her head in amazement. "That is remarkable. Your use of the light here is splendid." "Thank you." She suddenly looked as though she'd had an idea. "May I ask... Would it be demanding too much if I asked if you would teach me to draw as well as sing?" He tried to hide how delighted he was, afraid that if she saw the true intensity of his happiness it would frighten her. Instead, he allowed himself only a slight smile. "I suppose we can make time." A month had gone by since the premiere of Il Muto, and the papers not only in Paris, but in Vienna, London, and even as far as New York, had raved about Christine Daae's performance for the duration. Président Trochu had applauded her, and the Comte de Paris, pretender to the French throne, had come backstage to meet her. The most exalted inhabitants of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, hearing the reports, deigned to grace the opera house with her presence on the nights she performed. But Christine was not finished triumphing yet. She had one more trick up her sleeve. After months of carefully expanding her range by increments, she'd had a breakthrough and reached beyond her wildest dreams - half an octave above the highest note called for in the standard opera repertoire. It was almost a miracle. Only a handful of sopranos had ever been known to do it. The first time it happened, Erik had leapt up from the piano bench, and had to restrain himself from shouting in triumph. Christine had laughed for joy and then nearly burst into tears.

"If you did it once, you can do it again," Erik said, as she finished mopping up her happy tears with the handkerchief he'd offered.

Christine nearly embraced him, then recollected herself and doubled back just in time. She hoped he hadn't noticed. "Yes... I hope so..." she said. "Great Heavens... A Do-7*... I never thought..." She slumped gracefully back against the piano, too overwrought with happiness to think in a straight line.

"Try it a few more times today, then do your étirements and rest for the evening." He smiled.

She nodded, immediately straightening, ready at once to continue striving - one of the many things he adored about her. "Very well."

"Now that it is yours, it will be firmly in your command soon," he said. "Once it is, you ought to put it into emIl Muto." "Indeed?" "Why, yes." He smiled at the thought of the triumph that lay ahead of her. "Oh... I should like to, very much... But where would it resolve properly?" "The Countess' final aria." "Why, yes." She smiled one of his favorites among her many smiles - the admiring one that always made him feel like the most intelligent man in the world. "Just so." For a moment, he forgot where he was and whatever it was they were doing. He nearly forgot his own name. "But take care you do not do it until you are certain you feel ready," he managed at last, sounding pompous and prim in his effort to gather himself. "Oh, and save it for the proper moment." She smiled conspiratorially, and at once she had banished the awkwardness; they were two masterminds plotting their triumph. "You have my word." On the last night of emIl Muto , during the climax of the Countess' tragic final aria in Act III, she determined the proper moment had come. With a smile that belied the difficulty, she sent the clear, unearthly sound flicking out into the auditorium, swift and sudden as a throwing star. Afterwards, there was a moment of stunned silence. The audience, crew, and even for a moment the cast looked at her as though she had just flown around the stage. La Carlotta, eavesdropping from the wings, was suddenly taken ill with the hysterics and had to be rushed home. And then a whisper began to run through the crowd. Had it been real? Had Daae really done it? Had such a thing really happened? And the answer followed swiftly after it - yes, she had.

When Christine finished her cadenza (and the Countess gracefully died), the audience went wild, leaping to their feet and roaring approval. Reviewers, after confirming that it had really happened and they had not been hallucinating, rushed to telegraph their papers. La Carlotta was forgotten. La Daae was the lady of the hour.

The moment Christine had made her final courtesy - after no less than ten curtain calls - the managers all but dragged her offstage, parading her in front of an endless succession of wealthy donors who were suddenly clamoring to meet her. In the confusion, they even forgot and 'introduced' her to Raoul again, which made him laugh, though he was too polite to correct their mistake.

"A ti above high ti!" Andre said, when she had at last managed to edge away from the crowd and refresh herself with a much-needed glass of cold punch. "You see, I knew what note it was - I am capable of showing proper appreciation for high art, unlike my Philistine friend here." He elbowed Firmin, who took a gulp of his champagne and muttered something that sounded like 'should never have left the junk business'.

Christine thought it best not to point out that it had in fact been a do. She also tried her best to produce a smile that showed that she appreciated Andre's artistic talents but did not depreciate Firmin's abilities.

"What's next," Andre went on, "Shattering glasses?"

Firmin hurriedly set down his champagne flute, looking worried.

"Shattering the whole chandelier?" Andre suggested, flinging his arms wide. "Singing in harmony with yourself? Or perhaps you'll astonish us with your range in the other direction and sing baritone next time?"

Christine laughed. "I fear that is beyond my abilities."

"No, nothing is beyond you!" Andre crowed. "You are superhuman, Mademoiselle!"

 _They must have sold all the tickets,_ Christine thought, _or have received a donation, or else they wouldn't be flattering me like this._

"Don't you think so, my dear Vicomte?" And, catching Raoul by the arm, he pulled him over.

"Yes," Raoul said, a preoccupied look on his face. "Truly superhuman."

The next week was a whirl of activity for Christine. Everyone wanted to meet her. She could scarcely find a moment to practice music, or even sleep. The managers carried her from engagement to engagement. Every second of her time was spoken for. A few days later, however, Raoul managed to spirit her away, and she somehow found herself driving through the well-manicured avenues of the Bois de Bologne in one of the de Chagnys' many handsome and well-appointed carriages. Meg had once again brought herself along on this outing as a "chaperone". Ostensibly she was there to make sure Raoul behaved honorably, but again, she was really there to make sure Christine did not spoil her opportunity to win the affections of a vicomte. To round out their numbers, she'd brought along her latest flamme du jour, a handsome but rather witless specimen who was a marquis of some sort and answered to Ferdinand.

"Christine Daae! Mademoiselle, you sang very high indeed at the end of emIl Muto ," he'd said to Christine as they settled in the carriage. "It was the highest note I'd ever heard."

"I did not know you were at that performance, Monsieur," Raoul said with polite interest.

"Oh, I wasn't. I was in Berlin," Ferdinand said. He smiled, not seeming to realize that there was anything inconsistent about this reply.

Raoul blinked in bewilderment.

Good-natured as he was, he made a few more valiant attempts to engage the young marquis in friendly discussion, though all of them ended in similar confusion. Eventually even he gave up. After that, the drive continued in silence, though Ferninand continued to beam amiably at all of them and at everyone and everything they passed, blissfully oblivious to his failure as a conversationalist. emYou can't say the fellow isn't agreeable, Christine thought with a secret smile. The carriage eventually alighted at an elegant prospect overlooking one of the park's many well-landscaped artificial lakes. Meg and Ferdinand immediately disappeared into the hedges (Raoul valiantly pretended not to notice that they were missing). The de Changys' driver plopped his hat over his eyes and fell into a sound sleep. And thus the two old friends found themselves alone. After they had been strolling around the lake for a few minutes, Raoul suddenly came to a stop and cleared his throat nervously. "Christine," he said, taking her hands.

She blinked, too surprised to pull away. His hands felt strange on hers - not unpleasant, exactly, but out of place somehow. She found she was glad she was wearing gloves. "Yes?"

"I hate to spoil such a beautiful day with an unhappy subject, but there is something I feel I must bring to your attention."

"Oh?" Christine said with mild concern. emHe can't be going to mention Erik again. Surely not.

"Pray do not be alarmed," Raoul said. "But your friend Mademoiselle Giry and I think your instructor may be ... conducting some kind of experiment. With you as a subject."

Christine at last pulled her hands away. "I beg your pardon?" she said, not sure she had heard correctly.

"Think of it. He is giving you lessons for free," Raoul said. "What motivation could he have for that?"

"I-"

"-Glory, one would assume, but no, he has asked you to keep this a secret. Surely, therefore, there must be some other reason. Perhaps a sinister one."

Not wanting to meet his eye, Christine busied herself adjusting her hat and stared out across the lake. "What sort of experiment do you suppose him to be conducting on me?" she said. "I imagine I would be aware of it."

"Actually, that is precisely what you would not be," Raoul said. "You see, we think, your friend and I, that he may have mesmerized you in some way."

"Mesmerized me?" Christine echoed, no longer able to pretend her attention was devoted to the scenery. "Or hypnotized you," Raoul said.

"What, like the magicians that make people take their clothes off onstage?" Christine said incredulously. "I think you hit your head on the ceiling during the ride here. On that note - you ought to invest in some new springs for your carriage. I don't know when I've been so jostled about."

"It is not merely some imaginary stage trick," Raoul said irritably. "There is a solid clinical basis for the practice of hypnosis, backed by a great deal of scientific literature. Some of the world's leading clinicians, Dr. Hippolyte Bernheim for example-"

"-You have been researching this!" Christine cried. "How gracious of you to finally let me in on your investigation! Do please tell me what you have discovered about what goes on in my head! I await your conclusions, Monsieur le Docteur."

Raoul swallowed. "I have heard of people being enabled by hypnosis to commit feats of unnatural strength, things that would be impossible otherwise," he summarized at last, having the decency to look sheepish. "That is all I was going to say. You must admit it is at least theoretically possible that this is what has happened to you. The notes you reached during your most recent performance... they were almost incredible."

Christine looked away.

"You must be careful," Raoul said gently.

"I must admit to being somewhat offended!" Christine said at last. "I didn't assume Meg must have been hypnotized when she turned sixty-four fouettés during the ballet in Act III, and that is, if anything, more demanding than I what did - I don't know why the papers weren't talking about that instead. And what about your bravery in the Navy?- no one ever suggested that was not due entirely to your own merit. Why should my accomplishments, then, be treated with suspicion?"

"I thank you for your compliments. But neither of us had fallen into the path of an anonymous personage with unclear motivations," Raoul pointed out indisputably. "Besides, Mademoiselle Giry undoubtedly exerted a great deal of effort to learn to execute her- er- frappés-"

"Fouettés, Monsieur le Vicomte," called Meg, coming up to them. She had apparently pried herself loose from Frederic, who was now wandering in carefree circles a few yards away, smiling at a daisy in his hands, with no apparent idea of where he was going.

"Fouettés, precisely," Raoul continued. "I understand it took years of devoted practice to master such a difficult maneuver. And my modest accomplishments in the Navy, such as they were, came as a result of a great deal of labor."

"Do you imagine that I do not practice?" Christine shouted.

Meg gently took her arm.

"Of course not," Raoul said, looking wounded. "Great heavens, you cannot imagine that I would be so mean as to think you do not. But your abilities appeared almost overnight. When I heard you at the gala, I could tell at once your singing had changed to an almost miraculous extent - I did not even recognize you at first. Mademoiselle Giry agrees."

 _Could I not sing before_? Christine thought, stung.

"Besides, there is a look in your eyes when you speak of him- and sometimes when you sing - that I do not like at all," Raoul said.

"A look in my eyes?" Christine cried. Her voice dripped with scorn, but in fact her mind was whirling.

"As though you were... in another world." Raoul stopped, struggling to put into words what he was thinking.

"I don't understand."

"Well, what I mean is - it... it isn't natural," he finished at last. "There is something almost infernal about it."

"Perhaps there's a simpler explanation for that," said Meg, who had looked chastened by Christine's objections. "Perhaps she's in love with him."

Christine froze.

Raoul's eyes swung toward her.

She hurriedly tried to collect her thoughts, hoping her expression would not betray her unsettled mind. "A man of whom, as Monsieur le Vicomte is so fond of reminding me, I know nothing?" she scoffed in what she hoped was a convincing tone of disbelief. "A man who will tell me nothing of himself? Now I know she has hit her head on the ceiling one time too many."

Meg burst into laughter. But though Christine hid it well, Meg's words had unsettled her deeply. Raoul could see the preoccupied look in her eyes, and he did not like it.

"Christine, I repeat my offer to hire another instructor for you," he said. "I would prefer very strongly you never see this Monsieur Masson again."

"What?"

"It is not safe."

"No!" Christine cried, so loudly they all stared at her.

"To do other than accept would be foolish," Raoul said. "It would look very bad."

"How dare you?" she cried, feeling angry tears gathering in her eyes. "What do you know of any of it?"

"What in Heaven's name do you mean? What reason do you have to be so distressed?" Raoul said, annoyed.

"Surely as long as the instructor is capable, it makes no difference." Christine recalled where she was and tried to restrain herself. "On the contrary. You cannot possibly understand how difficult it is to find an instructor of quality," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "Even were I blessed with a fortune of my own, I should be hard-pressed to find one who was a good match."

"A good match?" Raoul said. "An instructor who is not well-suited to their pupil can do incalculable damage. That is the only 'hold' he- or anyone else- has over me," Christine said. She turned away angrily.

"Christine?" Raoul said, putting a hand on her arm. She jumped, causing him to snatch it away.

"If you will forgive me," she said when she trusted herself to speak, "I should like to go home now."

When the de Chagny carriage had deposited Christine and Meg outside the Girys' appartement and the two friends were alone, Meg took Christine by the arm.

"Dear, I need to speak with you," she said.

"What do you want?" Christine said angrily.

"Don't - I'm not going to scold you. Listen to me... perhaps I was wrong about him using hypnosis on you," Meg said softly. "Whatever anyone else says, you should be given credit for what you have accomplished, making as much progress as you have as quickly as you have."

"Thank you," Christine said, genuinely moved.

"I hope I never begrudge you your success."

"You don't."

Meg smiled. "Thank you, dear. But listen - you must be careful what you say in certain company. Whatever your fancy is for Erik-"

"-What?"

-You would have to be soft in the head to let it get in the way of things with Monsieur le Vicomte - he can give you anything."

"I do not have 'a fancy for Erik'," Christine said. "How could I, knowing how he deceived me?"

"Don't you?" Meg raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you letting him come between you and Monsieur le Vicomte like this? It isn't very shrewd of you."

"What do you mean?" Christine said.

"Why are you holding onto him like this? Why not do what Monsieur le Vicomte wants?"

"I cannot allow him to dictate my actions. It is a matter of principle."

Meg raised an eyebrow. "You're proud, ducky," she said. "You have to be careful."

You have no shortage of pride yourself, I might point out," Christine said.

"Yes," Meg said without offense, "But I am better at hiding it. Men don't like it when you're stubborn."

Erik has never objected to it, Christine thought. But she stopped herself from saying it aloud. Erik was not a man, after all, for all intents and purposes. He hardly even seemed real. It was as though he did not belong to this world; he had no name, no country. He was a shadow, a phantom. _He would never marry me,_ she thought. And then, _why would I even think of such a thing?_

"You know Monsieur le Vicomte dislikes the fellow, so why do you insist on always leaping to his defense, especially when he's done so little to deserve it?" Meg went on.

"It won't do you any favors. Opportunities like this don't come around very often for people like us. Why do you think I'm putting up with that poor little noodle-brained marquis?"

"He is handsome," Christine pointed out with a shrug, not willing to concede her point.

Meg rolled her eyes. "He won't be for long. He'll run into a tree or something one of these days and that will be the end of that nice face of his. No, I'm not carrying on with him because he's handsome - it's because I'm afraid people in our position have to take whatever opportunity we can get."

"What about the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac?" Christine said. This was another one of the patrons at the opera, who, as far as Christine could tell, seemed to be coming to performances a good deal more often since he'd met Meg. Christine liked him much better than any of her other admirers. He was polite and refined, courteous and gentlemanlike.

Meg smiled shyly. "He'll never notice me."

"I wouldn't say that," Christine said with a smile. "What about those flowers the other night?"

"That doesn't mean anything. I'm sure he buys flowers for lots of girls." Meg looked away, and for a moment Christine couldn't see her expression."Don't change the subject!" she cried suddenly, looking back at her. "We are supposed to be discussing you and the Vicomte. Christine, don't you understand my concern?"

"Very well." Christine thought. "I cannot blame you for encouraging this," she said at last. "But... what if an... alliance with the Vicomte were not the ideal situation it seems to be?"

Meg's eyes widened. "You would be set for life. He's a good man; you know you'd be safe with him. That isn't easy to find. And he would let you sing! What is there to object to? I don't understand you."

"But he does not believe I can really sing," Christine said. "He thinks it is all some kind of magic spell. He doubts the music, Meg- you don't understand! He-"

"-Prove him wrong, then," Meg said. "You can bring him round. Switch to another instructor and he will see that he is wrong about you - that you are a true artist, not just some mad magician's puppet."

"That may be just why I do not wish to give up my lessons with Erik," Christine admitted in a rush. "Meg... what if you're right?"

"Right?"

"What if my gift is not mine at all?"

"I think it is. I'm not sure this hypnosis business is as all-powerful as the Vicomte seems to think," Meg said practically. "But there's only one way to know for certain, and I've just told you what it is."

"Of course," Christine said quietly. But silently she added, _Not the only way..._

* * *

 **(Music suggestions: 'The Call Within' by Dario Marianelli)**

* * *

Christine awaited her next lesson in an agony of anticipation. She tried to warm up while she waited for Erik to arrive, but her voice rebelled. It wandered and wavered, her anxiety seeming to let it loose from its usual moorings. Finally, with a discreet knock, Erik let himself into the little room. She jumped. "Are you well?" he asked with a look of concern. "You do not sound like yourself."

"Thank you - I'm not ill." She shifted from one foot to the other.

He gave her a curious look. "That is not always the same thing."

She looked away. "Shall we look at the aria?"

"Er - I suppose," he said, surprised by her abruptness. "You have completed the vocalises I assigned you the other day?"

"Yes. Well, I attempted to. You heard the unfortunate result, I believe."

"Well." He seated himself at the piano. "I should like to hear you sing a few scales. Stand so I can see you in profile- I am not sure you are using your breath properly today."

Christine complied with this, but after the monotony of do, re, and mi major , she couldn't stand it anymore. She stopped mid-scale and rounded on him.

He lifted his hands from the keys, startled. "There's something I must ask," she began. Her voice shook, but her brown eyes held him.

"What is it?"

She hesitated. "Is there something... unnatural about these lessons?" she blurted out at last. "About my singing?"

He gave her a strange look. "Unnatural?" he echoed. "Well, the cultivation of the voice in and of itself is not, perhaps, what we would term strictly natural. There is no parallel for it in nature. It is like painting or sculpture - something human beings do that separates us from the lower animals. Done for beauty's sake alone."

Something in her softened. Every word he said was beautiful. She had never met anyone else lime him. "Yes," she said. "But I was thinking more along the lines of... a kind of a spell."

"A spell?" He looked at her in bewilderment. "I admit my abilities are considerable, but they do not extend to the dark arts."

"No, not that sort of spell," she said. "I know the devil cannot gain a hold on my soul. But mesmerization, perhaps, or hypnosis?"

He stared at her. "Certainly not. Even if I were capable of putting anyone into hypnosis - which I am not - the thought of controlling someone's mind without their consent... that is anathema to me."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Yes. Why in God's name would you imagine that I had done such a thing?"

"Because within a few days of you helping me," Christine said, "I went from singing like a machine to... well..." She trailed off, not sure how to continue without sounding immodest.

"Yes." Erik knew what she meant. He sat back. "I see. I am almost flattered. You give me too much credit. Your talent was already there - it merely wanted encouraging to come out. Your voice was always exceptional. I cannot take credit for that. I cannot make a talentless drone into a nightingale."

"Thank you," Christine said quietly.

"It sounds as though someone begrudges you your abilities," he said. "Who has been saying such things?"

"That doesn't matter," she said. "Is it La Carlotta? I would not put it past her."

"No," Christine said. "I know better than to trust anything that comes out of her mouth."

Erik grinned darkly, though his smile faded away again immediately at her next words.

"It came from a far more reputable source," she said. "The Vicomte de Chagny."

"Aha! That scoundrel!" Erik couldn't help exclaiming. If he hadn't been in Christine's presence he would have called him a more colorful name. "I might have known."

She looked up, incensed. "Are you acquainted with the gentleman?"

They both were perfectly aware that she already knew the answer. Still, he couldn't bring himself to admit it outright. "Yes, we have an apératif at the Jockey-Club every Friday," he said witheringly instead.

"No, you are not acquainted with him - you refused to meet him," Christine said. "Therefore, you are in no position to form an opinion of his character. I am, and he is not the scoundrel you paint him as. He is a very respectable man."

"Then I am certain he would not set himself up as an expert on a subject of which he knows nothing." Erik's voice oozed sarcasm. "How fortunate that he has such a vast knowledge of opera. Where did he acquire this expertise?"

 _I might well ask where you acquired your expertise!_ Christine nearly shot back. But at the last moment she decided against it. Erik's methods had been effective - more than effective - for her thus far. His education, however he had come by it - perhaps he had sold his soul - was more than adequate as far as she was concerned.

"You do not give him enough credit," she said instead. "He is a musician - he can play the piano. I have heard him."

"By himself?" Erik sneered. _How he's grown! Can he tie his own shoes now too, or does Nurse have to do that for him?_

Christine was not sufficiently impressed by this remark to be moved to reply.

"What have you heard him play?" Erik pressed. Immediately he regretted asking the question. It had been careless when he didn't know what the answer was- if it turned out the Vicomte played Liszt's _Transcendental Études_ (though he very much doubted the boy had it in him), his argument would be utterly undone. _You wouldn't make much of an attorney, Erik. Even without that face._

"Frère Jacques," Christine said, blushing in spite of herself.

Erik gave a blank look.

Christine looked at him in surprise. "It's a nursery rhyme. It is French."

"Is it indeed? Frère Jacques? I never would have guessed."

She looked annoyed. "I would have thought you'd heard it," she said uncertainly.

"No," he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. No one had ever sung nursery rhymes to him. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to enlighten me."

Christine picked out the little melody on the piano. "How does the other hand go?"

Erik pressed in spite of himself, knowing now what the answer what be.

"There... isn't another hand," she said sheepishly. "That's all."

Erik smirked. Just as I suspected. "A true virtuoso, our Vicomte. Can he read music, dare I ask?"

"A... a little," she said, not willing to answer 'no'.

"I see," Erik said dismissively. "Does he know what a key signature is?"

"Ah-"

"-A time signature?" he pressed.

She shrugged irritably. "That's not the sort of thing that comes up when I converse with... normal individuals. I suppose not."

And a man like that was going to win her away from him? Erik thought. Suddenly, almost without realizing it, he was shouting. "Well, then, you should trust that I, the expert, know what I am talking of, rather than giving credence to his uneducated and ignorant suppositions! If you think he is so knowledgeable, perhaps you ought not to come to me for help anymore!"

If he had expected this attack would silence Christine, he was mistaken. "Monsieur de Chagny may not be an accomplished musician, but he did research hypnosis," she countered.

Erik snorted. "I don't doubt it for a moment. But had that fool bothered to conduct more than a cursory examination, he would have learnt that it is impossible to hypnotize a person to do anything they were not physically capable of to begin with - or to hypnotize someone against their will. If you doubt my word in this matter, I would invite you to go to one of our city's many scientific bookstores and research the matter for yourself - instead of relying on Monsieur le Vicomte's word on the subject."

Fear, anger, relief, and another emotion she couldn't define whirled around in Christine's head. Erik hadn't done anything to her. Nothing he was aware of, anyway, it seemed. "Why have you grown so angry?" she said, once she had collected her thoughts. "What do you have against him?"

"What?" Erik snapped.

"What has he done to you?"

"I find it exceedingly tiresome when men express opinions on subjects of which they know nothing," he said. "And I resent his making remarks that could sabotage your career at the very moment of your success, after both of us have worked so hard to build it!"

"I see," Christine said quietly. "Well, if I have offended you, I am sorry."

"Thank you," Erik said. "Forgive me; I should not have shouted." Taking advantage of the quieter, less tense atmosphere that succeeded these remarks, he ventured to add, "I merely... I hoped that you would not want to explain away the extraordinary gift you have been given. That you would not regard it as something suspicious, to be feared and mistrusted. Why are you so determined to believe the Vicomte?"

"I am not 'determined to believe him'!" she cried. "I have a sensible head on my shoulders, thank you. I always believe where the evidence leads."

Their gazes locked, his blazing a challenge. That isn't good enough. I deserve better from you, he seemed to say.

Christine quavered. "No, I must be more frank," she said at last. "You see, Monsieur le Vicomte is an open book. He has lived an honest life and therefore has nothing to hide. You have too many secrets. I do not know what to think of you." "

"And casting me as a diabolical hypnotist would be a way to settle that question?" he said bitterly.

"You are very perceptive," she said sadly. "Yes, I suppose it would. But it isn't that, really. There is something else I want to find an explanation for, and nothing you have told me is sufficient to explain it."

"Oh?"

Christine hesitated. "It's..." it is what I feel in your presence. Raoul was right. When you are near me I feel as though... She stopped. Some instinct whispered to her that she should not tell Erik about those feelings. "...Yes?" Erik said.

She quavered. "No, I can't explain," she said at last. "I am sorry."

"Could you perhaps... attempt to?" he asked. "For the purposes of... illumination?"

Christine realized she had drawn close to him without noticing. They were less than a foot apart and her hands had reached toward his, which were frozen as though glued to the keys. His eyes were fixed on her. The air seemed full of electricity, like it did before a storm. It was too much. She hurriedly turned away.

"We have gone over time already," she said, her voice shaking. "I... I must go."

Erik was too terrified to try again. He felt his shoulders slump in defeat. "Shall we resume tomorrow?" he asked, afraid to hear her answer.

"Do you want me to come?" she asked shyly, somewhat surprised.

"I do," he said, but couldn't stop himself from adding, "If you are not afraid that I will hypnotize you into walking off the roof."

Christine looked back toward him sadly. "No," she said. "I have never thought you would do anything of that kind. Well, then, I shall see you at the same time tomorrow. Yes? Good. Ah - thank you. À _demain_ , then." And she hurried out of the room so quickly that she forgot her music. Her mind was whirling. She had to get away from him.

If it is not some hypnotic trance, then what is it I feel when I am with him? When I hear his voice I am seized by such a feeling... as though I were capable of anything I wanted to do. It had been at least partially due to Erik's faith in her that she had found it in herself to hit that high Do, she was beginning to realize. He'd believed she could, and that was enough for her - it was a _fait accompli._ Erik's opinion of her was more precious than anyone else's. The reward she cherished most was not applause, nor reviews, nor even the lavish jewels prominent audience members sometimes awarded her, but his praise.

emWhy should I care so much?

Her mind suddenly flung her back to the day when he'd first appeared to her in the church on rue Chauchat and revealed his true nature. She'd burned with shame and anger, gone cold with despair - but there had been another feeling smoldering somewhere within her, something she couldn't put her finger on, almost a gladness. As though she had been longing for it to be so, longing for it to turn out that he was a man of flesh and blood.

What if Meg was right, has been right all this time? Could I be... She stopped as though she'd run into a wall.

emGreat God, could I be...? No, it can't be. I'm being ridiculous. emA masked man with nothing but secrets, who probably hasn't even told me his real name? ,Over Raoul, courteous and gentlemanlike, frank and open, whom I have known since childhood? ,Even Christine Daae is not that softheaded and impressionable. I know perfectly well emlove with a man like Erik is impossible. ,What an absurd thought! This could have gone very badly. Thank Heavens I caught it in time.

 **End of Chapter 9**

* * *

 _*In English, this would be a C7. In Europe they use do, re, mi, and so on as note names instead of A, B, C, etc._


	10. In Altissimo

**Chapter 10 - _In Altissimo_**

* * *

 _ **But oh, what damnèd minutes tells he o'er**_

 _ **Who dotes, yet doubts - suspects, yet soundly loves!**_

 **- _Othello_ , Act III**

* * *

 _It will pass,_ Christine had assured herself. _I will make it pass._

She ought to have known better.

Later that week, a few hours before dawn, she was lying in bed in her little attic appartement, deep in a dreamless sleep, when it struck back. She awoke with a start, fully alert, and found that she was shaking, with tears in her eyes.

A sole thought flew around and around in her head. _I love Erik. I have known it all this time. It cannot be denied any longer._

There was no use in trying to go back to sleep; she knew it at once. Her heart was pounding. She threw off the bedclothes, which were clammy with sweat and snaked around her, and plunged out onto her little balcony. There she stood, barefoot and shivering in her thin cotton nightdress, hoping the cold night air would bring her back to herself.

 _What a fool I have been not to admit it to myself,_ she thought, looking out over the moonlit rooftops. _Every moment with him is precious. It doesn't make sense, but nothing beautiful ever does._

A snatch of music from her most longed-for role, Violetta in _La Traviata_ (she knew every line by heart already, though her voice was not quite ready for the role and Erik had warned her that to learn it early might compromise her artistry - and indeed, he knew perfectly well she had gone ahead and sung through it anyway), suddenly burst into her head. She had never understood Violetta's soul-searching before, but now all at once it made sense to her, snapping sharply into focus.

 _Would such a love be a curse for me?_

 _Make your choice, oh troubled soul of mine!_

 _No man has set you on fire before..._

 _I didn't know..._

 _I didn't know..._

Verdi's madly beautiful music did nothing to soothe her frantic soul.

How had she ever thought she could fight this? she mused as she hurried back inside and dressed in the half-darkness.

This yearning for him was closer to her, more a part of her, than her own flesh. She could no more have disentangled it from herself than she could have torn out her own heart.

Nor could she tell him, however. She would have to stand before him every day knowing what she knew and pretend everything was normal. Still, stopping lessons with him was even more out of the question; that would mean she might never see him again, and that was intolerable.

It was an impossible bind.

Things could not go on this way indefinitely.

Something had to happen.

* * *

A few days later, it all came to a head.

Over the past few weeks, she had often found herself looking at Erik's painting. It gave her strength to know someone could see her in that way - at once joyful and regal, just the way she had always wished to be, just the way she imagined herself when she was at her best.

However, there was another, less happy reason why it drew her eye. There was something about the painting, she had realized slowly, that troubled her. Something about it simply wasn't right, some detail she couldn't put her finger on.

She had gone over it again and again without discovering anything.

It wasn't anything to do with how he had depicted her; she'd known that from the beginning. That aspect of it was blameless. He'd shown her modestly attired, and her expression showed nothing but innocent happiness - nothing lascivious or provocative. In short, it was in every way respectful. That was just what she had come to expect from him.

The only irregularity she had been able to find was that her costume and the scenery did not match. The backdrop was from _Il Muto_ , while the dress was the one from her gala debut. However, that too was understandable. In fact, she was glad he had not painted her in the towering powdered wig she'd had to wear as the Countess. It would have been absurd. This was better.

But still, something about it was wrong. The suspicion drove her wild - she even dreamed of it - and yet she was afraid to know the answer. She had a curious feeling that once she knew - for she would find out one day; she knew herself well enough to know that she would not be able to stop until she had discovered it - everything would be changed.

* * *

Shortly before the end of ' _Il Muto_ ', fate dropped Christine a plum.

Or rather, as she preferred to think of it, she had snatched one from its branches. That singularly French expression had always felt off-key to her. Fate never dropped unexpected sweets to people like her. Nothing had ever been given to her - nothing, that was, save the awe-inspiring gift of Erik's inexplicable devotion to her artistic development, the sole moment of brightness in the history of her life. She had had to fight for everything she had.

But it seemed things were beginning to look up for her at last. She had won the lead soprano role in a new production the theatre was putting on - that of the priestess Leïla in Bizet's _The Pearl Fishers_.

Christine was elated. It was one of her favorite roles in the coloratura repertoire. She had dreamt of playing it ever since the opera premiered years before. As an actress, she was delighted by the character - Leïla was clever and brave, noble and generous, the opposite of the flighty and deceitful Countess in 'Il Muto' - and the singer in her was enraptured by Bizet's bewitching melodies. In addition, she soon learned the artistic director wanted her to make her first entrance suspended from a wire - a thrill for her adventurous nature. (The libretto called for Leila to enter by boat, but the artistic director was not concerned with such minor details.) Far from being afraid of heights, Christine found them exhilarating, and ever since she was a child she had dreamed of soaring high above the stage, looking as weightless as a fairy.

She arrived even earlier than usual the day she was scheduled to practice it for the first time.

Shadowing her was Meg, who was considerably less thrilled by the whole thing. Convinced a catastrophe was going to happen, she was afraid to even watch the proceedings, but nonetheless had accompanied Christine on the off-chance that she might be able to do something to shield her from disaster.

They reached the stage long before any of the other cast members. Only the scene-shifters had arrived. Notable among them were Buquet- who had kept a careful several yards away from both Christine and Meg ever since the incident with the fireball- and his second-in-command Hubert, who Christine and Meg both liked much more.

"What are you trying to make Christine do?" Meg said, speaking to Hubert and pointedly ignoring Buquet.

"Afternoon," Hubert said, one hand buried in his impressive Père Nöel beard. " _She_ doesn't have to do a thing except sing. We buckle her into a harness and hoist her up. Simple as can be."

"I don't know," Meg said, as though she had the final say in the matter. Christine hid a smile.

"You can have a look at the harness if you like," Hubert said, understanding. He turned to Buquet. "Where is it?"

Buquet held out a sturdy-looking contraption composed of thick leather straps buckled together.

Christine watched Meg's face as she inspected it warily. At last the dancer gave a reluctant nod. "Well, I suppose that's all right, then."

"Marvelous. Should we put it on her now?" Hubert asked.

"Er - I thought you had better do it," Buquet said, backing further away.

Christine smirked.

Hubert looked at Buquet in surprise and then shrugged. "Very well, suit yourself." In his hands, the harness quickly transformed itself from an incomprehensible jumble of straps into a logical and useful-looking apparatus. He deftly buckled Christine into it, being careful not to touch her. Under his breath he muttered, "Lazy devil. I mean him, of course, not you, Mam'zelle."

Christine smiled.

"You can ask anyone; I'm the one who really runs things around this place," Hubert continued to grumble.

"I'm not sure all this is a good idea," Buquet called. "Aren't you worried about the Phantom sabotaging... something?"

"I am more concerned about La Carlotta," Christine blurted out before she could stop herself.

Fortunately, she was in safe company. The crew all laughed - they shared her opinion of the prima donna.

"I examined every bit of this machinery not five minutes ago," Hubert said. "And there have been men watching it every moment since. Whoever the fool is, he'd have to be a sorcerer to find a way to sabotage it."

"But maybe he is," Buquet said.

"You don't really believe there's anything to that story?" Hubert laughed.

Buquet was silent.

"Chrissake," Hubert muttered. "If you're scared, go on. I can manage." Under his breath he added, "Your gin is probably wondering where you are. Drunken fool."

Buquet, only too happy to available himself of this offer, turned and clomped away. Hubert clipped a thick cable to the back of the harness. When it was sure it was secure, he nodded to the flyman supervising the sandbags that anchored the other end.

"Don't be afraid," he said, giving the wire one last hard tug to make sure it was secure. "We won't let you fall. You're too expensive to replace."

Christine smiled.

"The Vicomte de Chagny would have my head, not to mention what this Phantom fellow might do." Hubert made a gesture to the flymen in charge of the sandbags attached to the other end of the line.

"I am not in the least afraid, I assure you," Christine said. And up she went.

The straps dug uncomfortably into her torso, but held firm. She rose swiftly, feeling like a firework sailing up into the sky. In no time at all she found herself among the gods, the highest level of scaffolding, and everyone on it looked like no more than dabs in one of the Impressionist paintings that she so adored.

"That's where you'll start! Sing something!" Hubert called, presumably through a megaphone, though she could not see well enough to tell. "As loud as you can." Christine decided on 'O Dieu Brahma!', Leïla's aria in 'The Pearl Fishers'. Since she had not warmed up, she skipped the more technical passages.

Even with this precaution, however, the task was all but impossible. Erik had been right. The harness pressed against her ribcage, making it impossible to fully expand her lungs, and she couldn't breathe deeply when her weight was being held by her shoulders. She managed to warble out the first few notes, but Erik would have been appalled by her technique.

She was relieved when Hubert's voice interrupted, "All right, all right, that's enough! It's no good. We can barely hear you up there. You'll have to wait until you're lower before you start."

Slowly, Christine began to descend. She passed an interminable forest of ropes and pulleys, jumbled as a ship's rigging - for ever since the incident the day before the gala, no one had dared come up here to maintain it. A few moments ticked by. Eventually the faces of the crew below became discernible again. If she were to fall now, she would survive. She reached the first of the lowest levels of scaffolding, which had been deserted ever since the Phantom dropped a backdrop on La Carlotta.

"There is good!" Hubert's voice boomed out, no longer needing a megaphone for him to hear her. "Sing something!"

Her descent halted. The wire shivered with momentum.

Again, she subjected the crowd below to the same terrible rendition of _O Dieu Brahma_!, wincing and hoping improbably that Georges Bizet wouldn't show up to any of the performances and hear her butchering his music like this.

"Good!" Hubert cried, and she stopped with the same feeling of relief as before.

Dangling there like a Christmas ornament, Christine had time to wave to Meg (she thought about blowing a kiss, but didn't want any of the stagehands thinking it was meant for them) and then thoughtfully take in the interesting view laid out below her. She was glad for the chance to study to this perspective of the stage - it seemed familiar somehow. But why, she wondered…

And then, like a flash of lightning, it came to her.

All at once she understood something that escaped her for weeks.

When she began to move again, she hardly noticed. She was scarcely conscious of the rest of her descent to the stage, she was so preoccupied with the horrible discovery she'd just made. When her feet touched the ground, it almost surprised her, and she only dimly registered Meg coming up to throw her arms around her in relief.

"That was good. We're going to have you hang right there," Hubert's gruff voice cut into her thoughts, as he waved Meg away and freed Christine from the harness. "Not too high up."

He paused. "You did well, Mam'zelle. But you're shaking, you know."

"Am I?" Christine was surprised to find her voice was, indeed, quivering. But then, what she had just realized would have shocked anyone.

"Christ almighty," Hubert grumbled good-naturedly. "This is just what I need. A soprano who's afraid of heights."

Normally Christine's pride would have been hurt by this assumption, but at this moment she welcomed it, as it conveniently masked the real reason for her distress.

The painting. She had finally realized what was wrong about it.

Hanging up there in the heights, she'd seen at last that the perspective it showed of the stage it showed could only have come from the scaffolding. But ever since the 'accidents' had begun, no one had been allowed up there, and no one had dared to break this rule.

No one, that was, except the Phantom.

After this horrible discovery, Christine was in an agony of anxiety until next she saw Erik.

 _Oh, God,_ she prayed despairingly, _let me have misunderstood. I could not bear to find out that he is a criminal._

And yet, every recollection of him, all his strange behavior, all seemed to point to it being true. Every cryptic remark he'd made suddenly made sense.

She arrived forty minutes early for their next lesson, as though that would somehow make it him materialize faster. He was the Phantom, after all, she thought bitterly - wasn't he supposed to see everything that went on in the opera house? Whether or not this was true, however, the wait was interminable. When she finally heard his hand on the doorknob, she thought she would leap out of her skin. She was so nervous she could barely remember her own name, let alone the time or place.

"I must speak with you," she said as soon as he'd shut the door behind him, before he had even taken his seat at the piano.

He looked at her in mild confusion, surprised by her tone. "Good afternoon. Certainly."

Even in the midst of her panic, his voice still sent a thrill through her. How she wanted to believe in him. He was almost her only ally. And he was certainly the only person who understood her wild heart. Couldn't she just pretend none of this had ever happened, go on as things were before?

But no. That was not her nature. She could not deceive herself.

"I must ask you something," she said.

"Yes?" Erik felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. What was she going to ask?

"As you are perhaps aware, for some time this opera house has been plagued by... suspicious incidents."

"Yes," he said carefully.

She looked at him almost in frustration, as though imploring him to produce a more helpful reply. "A personage called 'the Phantom' has claimed responsibility for them. I do not believe all the acts attributed to the Phantom were committed by the same person - he has become a convenient excuse - but I do believe that many of them are traceable back to one individual."

Erik nodded, a lump in his throat. "May I inquire as to the purpose of this discussion?" he said. It was not so much a challenge as a plea for her to speak of something else, to draw back from the terrible line she was about to cross.

However, that was not Christine's way. "Though I do not want to believe it," she said at last, "I cannot help but think that these acts... forgive me... that they could all have been committed by you." She sat down heavily, their positions in the room for once reversed. He could not know, she thought, he would never know, what this had cost her.

Erik stared at her, torn between terror and admiration. He had never expected she would ask him directly. Or rather, he had not wanted to believe it.

Some indeterminate sound came out of his mouth.

"You have heard of the Phantom?" she said, when he did not answer the question.

He stifled a laugh. "Yes, I have heard of him."

"And... are you responsible for the... incidents?"

"Are all our lessons going to begin with you accusing me of something?"

"Do me the courtesy of answering me," she said in a thin, nervous voice. It was a plea - almost a question - not a command. He eyed her warily.

"You know I pulled that stunt on Buquet," he said cautiously.

"Yes, but I am inquiring about the other things that have happened," Christine said.

"The other things...?"

"The truly criminal activity - the threats, the accidents," she said. "The twenty thousand francs a month that the old managers felt forced to pay just to live in peace!" _Oh, God... say it isn't you._

There was a painfully long silence.

"It was for you," he said at last.

Christine took a step backward. "Then you are he?"

Erik stared at her in silence, feeling as though his limbs had turned to lead. "I suppose now you're going to turn me in?" he said wearily. He didn't ask how she'd realized it - he didn't care. He should have known she would eventually - she was clever. And he cared even less whether she denounced him to the police. If he'd lost her regard, which he could see already he had, nothing else mattered.

"I don't know," Christine said. "I cannot promise you I will not. The Phantom is... you are... dangerous." She stood up. "Do what you will with me. Kill me." She stared him in the eye.

"Never," he said.

Her eyes blazed defiance. "Do it, you scoundrel!"

"I cannot!"

 _Oh God!_ Was she then to be faced with the choice of letting him go and putting everyone in danger or sending him to his doom? _Come to my aid, oh Lord!_ _Do not give me this choice to make!_ _What have I done to deserve this? Why have you not smothered this lawless passion? It is devouring my bones!_ "But... what if I decide to denounce you later?"

He shrugged heavily. "I don't care."

"But... how would you stop me?" she said, pleading.

"I couldn't," he said.

"You would stop coming to the Opéra?"

"No."

"But why? I gave you a chance; you ought to make use of it. I have been too kind to you already; I should have lied and told you I would keep silent, and then gone to the police once you let me go."

"Yes, you should have," he said. "Thank you."

"Do not thank me; you still have me to answer to!" she cried, eyes blazing. "And I will not deal with you lightly! How dare you say you committed those acts for my sake?"

"I don't see that it was so very bad."

"Not so bad?" she cried, stepping backwards. It seemed her prayer had been answered; the pull that drew her to him was weakening fast. She looked at him now and felt only disgust. "What of the backdrop that fell on poor La Carlotta-"

"-I wonder you can speak of her so sympathetically," he said with a snarl of distaste.

"-Let me speak!" she roared, her voice suddenly gaining all the power it had onstage. The sheer force of the sound nearly knocked him backwards. "The counterweight nearly fell on me! It could have killed me! How can you say you have an interest in my advancing as an artist, and then nearly cut my life short?"

Her words cut him to the quick. He'd been wrong - she could hurt him more. "How can you imagine that I am capable of such a thing? I would sooner destroy a Vermeer than let any harm come to you! I know this opera house like the back of my hand. I have lived here half my life. I know the machinery better than any of the stagehands. I knew exactly where the backdrop would fall! I arranged for it to be in that spot so people would know you are not collaborating with me!"

"If you had not sent all those notes about me then I would not have been under suspicion in the first place!" Christine shouted. Her skin crawled as this sank in - why had he written all those notes about her? Why was he willing to resort to blackmail to further her career? "What makes you imagine that it is acceptable to steal - and threaten - and extort others? It is in every way horrible!"

"I had no choice!" he shouted.

"What do you mean?"

"I had to run away from home when I was a child," Erik admitted, wincing at the memory of his early years. "It wasn't safe for me to remain. I had no-one to turn to. I am afraid all that nonsense I told you about going to the cathedral and buying gingerbread was just a pretty fiction."

Christine nodded. "I thought it might be. I often do the same thing," she admitted.

He nodded slowly, taking this in.

"What happened afterwards?" she asked.

"Ever since, I have had to fend for myself."

"Did you not ever seek honest employment?" she said.

"That would be impossible for me. No-one would ever accept me."

"That is a feeble excuse," she said.

"What do you know of it?" he cried.

"What do I know of it? I was an orphan, and foreign besides - and a woman, which is a disadvantage the magnitude of which you shall never be able to comprehend - and yet I never turned to crime!"

He tried to swallow his anger. "I did not deny that fate has been unkind to you. But our circumstances were in some ways very different." The understatement was so massive it enraged him. How he yearned to tell her. But he could not. It was impossible.

"In what way different?" she asked. "What excuse do you have that I do not?"

"I cannot tell you," he said.

She turned away with a cry of rage.

"There is a reason," he blurted out in spite of himself.

She slowly turned round. "Tell me, then," she said eagerly, a slight measure of trust stealing back into her expression. "You know you can trust me with your secrets - fool that I am."

"You are no fool," he said. "And yes, I would trust you even with my music - and I entrust that to no-one else. But I cannot tell you this. I would tell you anything else, truly."

"Is the secret another person's? Perhaps you... are protecting someone?" she suggested hopefully.

"No," he admitted. "I am the guardian of no-one's secrets save my own."

Christine's heart seemed to twist up inside her. She was giving him every chance. She wanted to believe in him, and he was systemically eliminating every reason she had to do so.

"If the secret is yours, and you cannot tell me, then it is not an honest reason."

"Yes, it is!" he cried, enraged by his helplessness.

"No. No!" Christine cried. Tears, hot with fury, rose to her eyes. "You do not think enough of me even to favor me with an explanation!"

"It isn't that," he said pleadingly. "There is no-one I hold in higher esteem than you-"

"Yes, it is!" she cried. "Do not torment me with false declarations of your... esteem!" She buried her face in her hand as though in pain. "Oh, God... This is a horrible betrayal!"

"A betrayal! In what way a betrayal?" he cried. "I never promised you anything. You never asked me to!" He was frightened by how obvious the bitterness in his voice was.

Christine looked up sharply. "That is untrue! You made an implicit promise to help me when you became my instructor. I trusted you with what is most precious to me in all the world - with my voice, with my aspirations. With my..." Her voice broke off in a sob. She turned away for a moment, her frame bent over with sadness, trying to hide her tears. All at once, however, her demeanor changed. She straightened and fixed him with an icy stare. "That is all over. I will not hold you to those obligations anymore. I cannot afford to be associated with the Phantom."

"You could before, it seems!"

"Had I only known!" she cried. "I have been too kind to you. That stops now. I will not risk anyone learning of our connection and thinking that I condone your despicable actions!"

"What are you saying?"

"How can I speak any more plainly?" she shouted. "Do not ever come near me again!"

"But Christine-! Christine!"

For a moment, her face crumpled in a sob. But the moment was soon over. Her face, save for her eyes, resumed its usual collected expression; she was master of herself once more. "Good night," she said coldly.

Only her voice betrayed that they had shared anything but polite conversation that evening.

And she sailed out of the room.

* * *

That evening, Christine wrote a check to Monsieur Alphonse Masson for seven hundred fifty-three francs for voice lessons. It was every sou she had.

She also sent a telegram to the Vicomte de Chagny, informing him that Monsieur Masson would be unable to teach her anymore, and if he was still willing to provide her with an instructor, she would be very grateful to accept.

The young man responded with almost miraculous speed. By the next afternoon, Christine found herself at the Conservatoire de Musique in a lesson with no less than Pauline Viardot-García, the most renowned vocal instructor in Europe.

Splendid, Christine thought. She had finally gotten the chance to meet one of her idols, one of the greatest living singers in the world, and all she could think of was Erik.

Things went well enough, though her new teacher remarked that she seemed distracted.

When she emerged from the lesson two hours later into the Conservatoire's vast, columned entrance hall, she was surprised to find a worried-looking Madame Giry awaiting her.

"Good afternoon!" Christine said, smiling, though she looked slightly confused as well. "What brings you here?"

"Christine, my dear," Madame Giry said, putting a hand on her arm. "You don't look like yourself. Are you well? Your new instructor - she is satisfactory?"

"She is an exceptionally capable instructor," Christine said automatically. "I am very fortunate to be her pupil."

"I was worried something might have happened," Madame Giry said.

Christine stiffened almost imperceptibly. "What makes you think that?"

"I shall explain later. There isn't time now."

"Is something the matter?" Christine asked.

"Yes, something serious, I am afraid," Madame Giry replied. "I am sorry to take you away from your practice, but I need your help. You know I would not ask this in anything less than the direst of emergencies."

"Good Heavens- what is it?"

Madame Giry lowered her voice. "Your instructor needs our help. I cannot trust anyone else."

"My instructor seems quite well," Christine said, confused.

"I was referring to Erik," Madame Giry said, almost whispering.

Christine jumped. "How do you know of that?"

"Here, I shall explain everything to you on the way," Madame Giry said. "But do please come with me, quickly."

"Monsieur le Vicomte is expecting me. He will be here any minute."

"I shall help you make some explanation to him later. You know I would never wish to do anything to hurt your chances with Monsieur le Vicomte-"

Christine thought about contradicting her, saying that she was not courting the Vicomte, but did not. What was the point? What did anything matter? She ought to be courting him. It was the sensible thing to do.

Still, the thought made her feel like she was falling into an endless, deep hole.

"-but this is urgent enough that I fear I have no choice to take you away for the time being," Madame Giry said.

"I don't see what E- my old instructor has done to deserve my help," Christine protested. "I don't know what you know of him-"

 _Oh,_ Madame Giry recalled, _Of course - she does not know of my connection to Erik. He wouldn't have told her about the fair - about any of it._ Well, she was going to find out soon enough...

"-but he is deceitful and cowardly," Christine was saying. "He gained my trust through false pretenses and refused to offer any explanation."

"Yes, it is true," Madame Giry said with a sigh.

Christine peered at her intently. "Then you know-"

"-I have some idea what you are speaking of. But Christine, his life may be in peril!" she cried, managing to get the words in at last.

"What?" Christine blanched. "Truly?"

Madame Giry nodded sadly.

Christine's stomach clenched with fear. "What has happened? What can I do?"

Madame Giry did not reply; she was already hurrying out toward the street.

"This is all too much," Christine cried, plunging after her. "You must explain to me what in Heaven's name is going on!"

Madame Giry held up a hand for silence, scanning the street for a cab.

The moment they were safely shut away from the noise of the road, questions came tumbling out of Christine's mouth. "Where is he? What has happened to him? Why have you come to me?"

"He is at home," Madame Giry said wearily. "And now, if you will let me begin at the beginning. Last night he came to see me... "

"...How does he know where you live? Has he been spying on you?"

"Not that I know of," Madame Giry said wryly.

"How did you come to be acquainted?"

Madame Giry gave her an odd look. "Then he has not told you... about himself?"

"He has told me almost nothing," Christine said. "I know he was born near Rouen and his father was a stonemason. That is assuming even that much of what he told me was true," she added bitterly.

"I see," Madame Giry said. "Well, I certainly understand why you have so many questions, then. Which would you like me to answer first?"

"Tell me what happened to him," Christine said at once. "Will he survive?"

"Very well. Putting aside for a moment the question of how we are acquainted, then... He came to see me last night. He seemed almost hysterical."

"Yes, but will he survive?"

"I hope so... I do not know.. I had never seen him in such a state- I could hardly make him talk sense. Eventually he left, but I was concerned, so later I went to look for him. I did not find him until this morning, under the opera house..."

"...Under it?" Christine interjected.

"Yes," Madame Giry said. "By the shore of the lake."

"The lake? I thought it was a myth."

"No, I am afraid not," Madame Giry sighed. "It is immense down there. Like an underground city, almost. How do you think it is that no one has been able to track down the Phantom after all these years?"

Christine's fingers gripped at her handbag in alarm. "You know he is the Phantom, too, then?"

"Yes."

"How long have you known? Did you know he was-"

"-That will have to wait, my dear," Madame Giry said quickly.

"You won't tell anyone?"

Madame Giry laughed darkly. "Certainly not."

"But then - this is why you always receive the Ghost's letters?"

"Yes."

"This makes you complicit in blackmail!" Christine stared at her in horror.

"He has protected you and Meg, all these years," Madame Giry said. "I could not afford to do without him."

"Oh. I see." Christine felt silent for a moment. Then, "But then you knew-"

"-Christine, there isn't time for this, I am afraid. As I was saying - I found him by the lake. It turns out the fool drank nearly a whole bottle of absinthe." Madame Giry paused, her voice unsteady. "The horrible cheap kind that they put God-knows-what in."

Horror shot through Christine. "Where is he now?"

"He is at home-" Madame Giry repeated.

"-At home? Surely he needs to go to a hospital. Is he ill?"

Madame Giry winced. "Yes. I couldn't wake him. He was breathing, but I couldn't wake him."

Christine's blood ran cold.

It was a short drive from the Conservatoire. Within minutes, the cab had deposited them on the Rue Scribe, one of the two bustling, prosperous avenues that ran on either side of the Opéra Populaire. Madame Giry looked around to make sure no one was watching, then stealthily made her way to an alcove set well back in the foundations of the opera house. On the back wall of this alcove was a large iron gate.

To Christine's astonishment, within seconds her foster-mother had deftly picked the heavy lock that held it shut. She hurriedly ushered Christine - who was too curious not to follow - through, slipped in after her, and slammed it shut, locking it again after them. The whole thing happened in a matter of moments. The transition was jarring. A moment before, Christine had been standing on one of the most fashionable boulevards in the capital, and now she was in a dank stone passage with no source of illumination in evidence.

Madame Giry pushed her gently along the tunnel until they were out of sight of the gate and all traces of daylight had disappeared.

Christine stopped. "I really won't go any further until you tell me what in Heaven's name is going on."

Madame Giry did not reply. As Christine's eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that she was taking a hurricane lamp out of the folds of her coat.

"I fail to see how our coming here can be of use to him," Christine said. "Shouldn't we be going to his home?"

Madame Giry lit the lamp. Its beams illuminated a tunnel so ominous-looking that Christine almost felt she had been more comfortable when the light was off.

"This is his home," Madame Giry said.

Christine's mind raced. At first, she was inclined to scoff in disbelief. But then certain memories started to come back to her, seemingly insignificant pieces of information suddenly taking on a new shade.

 _My apartment - if you can call it that - isn't a very desirable property,_ Erik had said. _It is underground..._

It appeared what Madame Giry had told her was true. This day grew stranger and stranger.

Taking a spool of red thread from her pocket, Madame Giry stopped to tie one end to a small piece of metal protruding from the wall. "Be sure to keep hold of this," she said, handing the spool to Christine.

"Like Ariadne in the labyrinth," Christine said.

"Precisely. I think this precaution is unnecessary - I ought to know the way by now - but Erik insists on it. He couldn't bear for anything to happen to me on his account. Come, my dear."

"But Mère, why does he live here?" Christine asked as they journeyed through the gloom. "And please, tell me how you came to know him."

Madame Giry sighed. "To answer your question, I must tell you something about myself." And slowly, in a halting voice, she began to tell Christine about the horrible night twenty-five years before when she had gone to the gypsy fair.

Christine interrupted only once, when she heard how the little boy in the last tent had tried to hide his face. "Erik?" she whispered.

"Yes," Madame Giry said quietly.

"Then he is... disfigured?"

"Deformed, yes. From birth, it seemed. He does not talk much of the past. As far as I can gather, his father abandoned him; his mother was so cruel to him that he ran away, or was thrown out of his house, I'm not sure which. Either way, he probably would have died if the fair had not picked him up. My dear, are you well? I would prefer to stop if this is giving you great distress; indeed, it is not easy for to speak of, even now-"

For as soon as Christine had learned the identity of the little boy trapped in that cage, tears had begun to spill from her eyes. "-No, I am well," she said, belying her tears. "Forgive me. Please do go on."

Reluctantly now, Madame Giry did. "You can guess the rest," she finished at last. "He has lived under the opera house ever since."

"So this is why he lives as the Phantom," Christine said in a strangled voice. "This is why he blackmails and extorts money from others. He has no other way to survive."

Madame Giry nodded. "He would like to become a composer - you know how much he is capable of - but who would listen?"

Christine stopped and stood as though rooted to the spot, one hand over her mouth, tears coursing down her face, her whole body wracked with sobs. "He was right," she whispered. "There was a good reason."

"My dear, are you well?" Madame Giry asked with a look of concern. "I am truly sorry. I did not mean to burden you. It is shocking, I agree. But I did not think there was any reason in particular that this would distress you as severely as this...?"

"It would be too difficult to explain," Christine said in a strangled voice. And, finding her footing again, she suddenly hurried forward. "Mère," she ventured eventually, "In your life, has there ever come a moment when you realized you had been a miserable, selfish fool?"

"Almost constantly," Madame Giry said. "Fortunately, one tends to grow accustomed to the sensation after awhile. Here, my dear." She held out her hand. Christine turned and took it gratefully.

Together, the two women continued to make their way down into the darkness. They walked for what could have been minutes or hours - Christine's mind could not judge the passage of time down here in this endless night.

Eventually, they came upon a still form.

* * *

 **End of Chapter 10.**

 **Thank you so much MissGalindaa, TangoSalsa and TopHatSnoo for your help and input! And thank you to all my wonderful readers for the reviews, views and support! You guys are amazing!**

 *** At some point in the past two hundred years, Rue Bergère was renamed Rue du Conservatoire, but the internet is mum as to when exactly this occurred, so I'm just calling it by its original name.**


	11. A Niente

**_Chapter 11 - A Niente_**

* * *

 _Nor will he tell me for whose sake_

 _He did me the delight,_ _Or spite;_

 _But leaves me to inquire,_

 _In all my wild desire,_

 _Of Sleep again,_ _who was his aid,_

 _And Sleep, so guilty and afraid,_

 _As since he dares not come within my sight..._

 _-Ben Johnson_

 **Music suggestions: 'Leaving London' and 'To Die For Love', by Patrick Doyle; 'The Lake' by Ken Hill; 'Creation' by Christopher Young**

* * *

A little blue-eyed cat, her tail like a brush dipped in paint, sat keeping vigil beside him, mewing pitifully.

He was sprawled on his back, his face for once uncovered.

 _Where is his mask?_ Madame Giry thought in horror. _Why would he leave it behind?_

Christine let out a strangled moan and darted forward. Collapsing onto her knees beside his still form, she put a frantic hand against his heart. It was the first time she'd touched a man's bare chest, but she was so concerned with the task at hand that she didn't even think of it.

His skin felt cold.

"Is he...?" Madame Giry began, but she couldn't finish.

There was a dreadful moment of silence.

"Christine?" Madame Giry said sharply. It was more a plea than anything else.

"I don't know," Christine said at last. "I can't... Madame, I can't feel anything! I can't... I can't... Oh, God..."

Madame Giry froze.

Then, suddenly, Christine's voice: "Wait. No... Yes, I can feel something! His heart is beating."

Madame Giry closed her eyes with relief. After a moment, she came forward and held the lantern over Erik's head. "Look, my dear," she said; "Your eyes are better than mine. Are his pupils reacting to light? Are they the same size?"

She had expected, if she had thought about it at all, that Christine would shrink back in horror at the sight of his face - just as she had done herself, she was embarrassed to remember, the first time she had seen him.

But Christine barely paused. _This is_ _what he suffered so much for?_ her expression seemed to say.

It did not occur to her to be afraid to touch him. Working with swift, careful hands, she deftly held one of his eyes open, then the other. "Yes. Yes, they are."

"Thank God," Madame Giry said. "I was worried he might have given himself a concussion when he fell."

Christine let his lids fall closed, horrified by the mechanical way they snapped back into place.

"Erik, wake!" she cried, seizing one of his hands in both of hers with sudden desperation. "Can't you hear me? Why won't you wake?"

Erik's eyelids fluttered and he looked around, but it was clear he had no idea they were there. The empty look in his eyes was frightening.

"What is wrong with him, Madame? He isn't just drunk. We must find him a doctor at once," Christine said, her voice trembling.

"No."

"What?" Christine cried.

"I know what to do," Madame Giry said. "I looked it up-"

"- _Looked it up_?" Christine said in tones of the deepest skepticism.

"...I believe he has methanol poisoning from the adulterants in the absinthe. The ethanol in the alcohol will have neutralized the methanol, fortunately; now all he needs is some bicarbonate of soda, and he keeps a supply of it for emergencies-"

"-You _believe_? Madame, you are neither a doctor nor a chemist! What if you are wrong? It is too much of a risk!" Christine cried. "I am going for a doctor!"

"He would be dead by the time you returned!" Madame Giry cried. "He is already worse than he was earlier."

"Then why did you not go to one before?" Christine shouted. "You knew there was something terribly wrong, and you didn't-"

"-The doctor might send for the police. And God knows what would happen to Erik in a prison. He would rather die."

"Mère-"

"-He told me more than once that he would kill himself if he were ever arrested," Madame Giry cried. "I do not doubt he would find a way to do it."

Christine was silent for a moment, wavering between staying and going. "Very well. What can I do?" she said at last.

"The first thing we must do is get him someplace warm, before he catches his death," Madame Giry said. "I tried to move him before, but I couldn't lift him. I think between the two of us we can manage it- necessity compels."

"Yes," Christine said, determined.

"We should get him to the fireplace, I think," Madame Giry said.

"A _fireplace_? Where on earth...?"

"He has one at his, er, home. Somehow he managed to design a ventilation system for the smoke. It's not far ahead now."

Christine nodded slowly. At this point, nothing Madame Giry could have said would have surprised her. "Very well, then."

Madame Giry stooped and managed to leverage herself under one of Erik's shoulders. Following her example, Christine wordlessly did the same.

He groaned faintly, but without any awareness of what was going on.

She was astonished by how difficult it was to lift him. His limp form was impossibly unwieldy, his weight careening back and forth between them as they half-dragged him through the tunnel. Unable to stand upright, they staggered along, stopping to rest with maddening frequency. Madame Giry nearly fell more than once.

The cat followed beside them with silent footfalls.

Just when Christine was sure she couldn't manage another step, the air started to feel warmer. They rounded a corner and she found herself looking out at the most unexpected sight she could have imagined.

Instead of another expanse of interminable blackness, the tunnel had opened out into a vast, high-ceilinged grotto, crammed full of candles, rather like a shrine. Half the space was taken up by a vast, glassy lake. The other half, a wide stone outcropping with steps leading down to the shore, was furnished with everything a human being could desire to live a comfortable life. There were bookshelves and a piano, a fireplace- just as Madame Giry had said- and a dining-table, though with only two chairs - both now knocked over. Elaborate draperies, barely recognizable as old curtains the opera house had discarded years ago, swathed the walls, softening the look of the rough stone. At the center of it all, taking pride of place like a throne in a throne room, was a small, expertly crafted pipe organ. And of course, there was music everywhere.

There was something deeply poetic about the place.

"Wait," Madame Giry said.

There was such urgency and fear in her voice that Christine froze instantly.

After a moment, she saw what had caused her concern.

Upon closer inspection, something was wrong. The strange beauty of the place was marred by destruction. Shattered glass, torn papers, candlelabras knocked to the ground. It looked as though a dragon had raged through it.

"Normally he keeps the place in perfect order," Madame Giry said in a voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. Her blue eyes uneasily scanned the gloom. "I fear someone else may have been here."

The cat, however, plunged swiftly forward.

Madame Giry's concern began to ease when she saw that.

Suddenly her eyes fell on something white lying in a corner. A closer glance revealed it to be a sheet of paper, the one thing that had escaped the wreckage. It appeared to be a drawing of Christine making her debut. The words _Heavenly gentleness_ _, my joy, my inspiration, the queen of goodness, my hope, my salvation_ , were inscribed across it.

As soon as Madame Giry saw this, she understood - Erik had done all this.

Christine never saw the drawing. Madame Giry had stepped on it and hurriedly slid it into the shadows out of sight, so fast that she never noticed.

"Mère?" Christine said. "Is it safe?"

"Yes," Madame Giry said after a moment, returning to her regular voice. "He has not been discovered. We are safe here."

"But what has happened?" Christine asked.

"He did this."

"This was his doing?" A sickening wave of guilt shot through Christine.

"Yes." Madame Giry was in no humor to waste time. "Come," she said crisply.

Christine quickly obliged. They plunged forward, broken glass crunching beneath their feet.

Soon, they had borne Erik across the room to the fireplace Madame Giry had spoken of.

Once they had laid him safely down on the rug before it, Madame Giry was all business. "Find some clean water; I believe he keeps some in a pitcher on the dining-table, and a glass. And fetch the bicarbonate of soda," she said, as she took some logs from a basket and flung them into the fireplace. "I believe you will find it in that rather ominous-looking cupboard in the corner."

Christine looked in the direction she indicated and saw a cabinet of dark carved wood. Upon opening it, she found a stock of tinctures and powders that would have filled a reasonable-sized apothecary shop. That made sense, she supposed - Erik had had to look after himself all these years. Still, she wondered how she'd managed to get ahold of some of them without a prescription. He must have had to steal them. The thought saddened her, but she no longer regarded it in the same condemnatory light as before. She couldn't.

"These labels are all in Latin," she said after scanning them for a moment. "I cannot tell what they say." With a sigh, she added, "He was always telling me I ought to learn Latin."

"It's a white powder," Madame Giry said, looking over her shoulder. "No, no, not that one, my dear - that's cocaine. The other one. It says 'saleratus.' Yes - thank you - that is the one."

Christine hurriedly brought it over, along with the pitcher and glass.

In a few moments, Madame Giry had mixed it into a measure of water. "Now, the only question is whether he is conscious enough to drink it."

Christine lifted Erik's head and shoulders so Madame Giry could hold the glass of cloudy liquid to his lips. To their enormous relief, he swallowed the mixture, too oblivious even to object to the unpleasant taste.

Madame Giry managed to make him drink a few more glasses of water and then Christine, exhausted, lowered him to the floor again. "What happens now?" she asked.

"He is in God's hands now," Madame Giry said. "I fear there is nothing more we can do but wait."

Christine sat for a moment in silence. Now that the frantic activity of the past few minutes was over, all the shock and fear of the evening - or afternoon, or whatever it was; down here everything felt like night - came rushing back to her.

She laid a hand tenderly against Erik's cheek, feeling tears already beginning to pool in her eyes again. She had done more crying these past few days than she had done in the previous five years put together. But then, she had seldom had such reason to weep.

Madame Giry watched her uneasily.

"All this time I thought he couldn't possibly have a good reason for extorting money, for all the threats, for blackmailing," Christine said quietly. "But he did."

"Yes, I suppose it is justifiable under the circumstances," Madame Giry said. "Twenty thousand francs a month is excessive, I admit, but I think he was hoping to save it up so he could go live an honest life somewhere and not have to bother anyone."

"I should have known better. I presumed to know him and yet how wrong I was." A few more tears spilled from Christine's eyes, shining in the firelight like moonstones. "I told him he was despicable and deceitful," she lamented.

"He is deceitful."

"And who among us is not?" Christine said impatiently. Anger flickered briefly in her eyes, but it soon died away again, replaced by sadness. "To think... I... I scorned him. He swore there was a good reason for the things he did, and I did not believe him."

"Why should you have?"

"He was right! I should have listened to him! Madame, I fear I may have driven him to drink like that with the things I said to him." Christine looked around again, taking in the disarray. Had she been responsible for this?

"It was his doing," Madame Giry said impatiently. "Do not blame yourself for his foolishness. I have spent the better part of a lifetime trying to guide him, protect him as best I can. He refuses to be helped."

"But I made him think he was nothing but a criminal," Christine said. "And now he may- he may die, and the last thing I said to him was..." She couldn't finish. _Oh, Erik, don't leave me. Not now when I finally understand. Give me a chance to apologize. And perhaps a chance to tell you..._

"Nonsense," Madame Giry said. "He could have told you. He knew you would understand if he told you about his past... about his condition. Or at least, he ought to have given you the credit of trusting you."

"But after the way he was treated..."

"Even then, he ought to have given you the chance."

"Madame..."

"Christine, it is nearly time for rehearsal," Madame Giry said suddenly. "You ought to be getting back."

Christine, whose eyes had again drifted toward Erik's still form, looked up in surprise. "You are needed at rehearsal as well. You may go. I shall remain here with him." It was curious. She felt, in some strange inexplicable way, that she belonged here, in this mystical new world, this kingdom underground. Its darkness filled her with a peculiar kind of joy she had never known before.

"No," Madame Giry said.

"Why not? Someone must." Christine's face hardened. "You don't want me to be left alone with him down here."

"Yes," Madame Giry said. "I don't."

"Madame!-"

"-He would never knowingly do harm to you - I am certain of that - but he is... peculiar," Madame Giry said, trying to explain. "He is unpredictable."

"You do him a disservice."

Madame Giry sighed. "I have known him for longer than you. But if you will not accept my concerns, then perhaps you will consider this - it would distress him very greatly if he were to find you here when he awoke, and know you had seem him like this."

"Without the mask, you mean?"

"Yes," Madame Giry said. "The shock could be very bad for him in this condition."

"Oh." Christine nodded sadly, understanding.

"Perhaps someday you may tell him that you know the truth, but now is not the time. For that reason, if nothing else, I wish you to go."

"But... what if he does not wake?" Christine said, choking out the words. "I do not want to leave if..." She trailed off.

Madame Giry didn't know how to reply.

"I do not know what to do," Christine said in distress. "Perhaps I could... hide?" She immediately felt absurd for having said it.

"No, you would never be able to get out without him knowing about it."

"I don't know what to do," Christine said again. She gazed down at Erik for a long time.

There was a horrible silence.

Suddenly Christine grabbed onto Madame Giry's arm.

"Why... Mère, I think he has more color!"

Madame Giry froze. "Are you certain?"

"Yes... and... his breathing is deeper." Christine frowned. "Oh, but it is probably only my imagination. I would not wish to give you false hope..."

"No," Madame Giry said; "I think you are right. He does look better. There, you see, you have already helped him. More than you know."

"Oh, I hope it is true." At last, after resting a hand against Erik's cheek for a long moment - a gesture which Madame Giry witnessed with alarm - Christine arose. "I shall go. I do not know how I shall bear the wait, but you say it is what he would want... You will tell me how he does, Mère?"

"Of course. I will send you a telegram as soon as he wakes... or-"

"-Please, don't say it!" Christine pleaded.

"Yes." Madame Giry nodded.

"Thank you." At last, with great reluctance, Christine turned to go.

She left behind Erik's strange, beautiful lair and followed the red thread back up to the land of the living. But her mind lingered behind long afterwards.

 **END OF CHAPTER 11**

* * *

NOTE: The wonderful MissGalindaa brought it to my attention that I should probably explain that cocaine was commonly used for medicinal purposes in the late 1800's. (It was a weird time in history.) Thank you, MissGalindaa! I forgot that this wasn't common knowledge - that's what being a psychology major does to you... Anyway, I thought it was quite hilarious that Erik just casually has cocaine in his medicine cabinet.


	12. An Irregular Resolution

**Chapter 12**

* * *

 _Or scorn or pity on me take..._

 _I must the true relation make..._

 _I am undone to-night..._

 _-Ben Johnson, The Dreame_

* * *

 **Music suggestions: 'The Dreame' sung by Anna O'Byrne (yup, that Anna O'Byrne!) or the extraordinary Jane Eaglen**

* * *

Christine had hoped rehearsing would help take her mind off Erik. Until now, she had never had difficulty leaving her other life behind for that brief span of time and concentrating all her attentions on the task before her. But tonight every note in _The Pearl Fishers_ , every word of the story, seemed to remind her of Erik. She could not stop thinking of all she had learned about him.

Far from repulsing her, finding out about his face, and his nightmarish past, had had the opposite effect. It had given her the reason she'd prayed for to trust him in spite of his crimes. It explained everything so precisely that she knew it must be true. Every word he had said to her these past few months was suddenly seen in a new light. But it had all happened too late. It was an irony too cruel to bear.

 _Oh, God, don't let me lose him now!_

A few weeks ago, Erik had come to Madame Giry and asked her to tell Christine of his love for her if anything ever happened to him.

Stunned, fearful that he was contemplating suicide, she had agreed. He had been in such a state that she would have agreed to almost anything he had asked at that moment.

Now, however, she found herself agonizing over whether it would be right to tell Christine or not. She'd begun to suspect that Christine was developing feelings for Erik that were quite apart from awe for her mysterious, gifted teacher or fear of the Phantom. And if that were the case, the letter would be sure to greatly distress her. It would make her bitterly regret a love that could never have been in the first place.

As she watched Erik, she pondered the matter over and over, but without making any progress. Fortunately, she was saved from this excruciating dilemma, because about an hour after Christine had left the Phantom's lair, Erik awoke.

She knew for certain he was coming round when he began to cry out. Her heart seemed to twist up inside her when she realized he was screaming Christine's name, begging her not to leave him. She tried to wake him by shaking his shoulder, but it was no use. In the end, she simply had to wait. It was agonizing. At last, slowly, the light of awareness came back into his eyes.

No sooner had it appeared, however, than it was followed by a look of bewilderment and sheer terror. Madame Giry winced - she could imagine his surprise upon awakening in a different place than he had fallen unconscious.

"Enfer putain bordel!" he cried, sitting bolt upright and scrambling so his back was against the wall. Even though she knew better than anyone else the things he had endured, the sight made her heart twist up in her chest.

When he saw it was only her, he scarcely calmed down. "Madame! How did I come to be here?"

"Don't be afraid," she said, handing him his mask, which he snatched back with a violent, almost animal motion. "It's only me. And stop shouting. You sound like a child whose older brother just taught him how to swear."

Erik scarcely seemed to hear her. When the mask was safely back on his face, he went on, "What has happened? The last thing I remember is being in the tunnel... How did I come to be back here?"

"You don't remember?" Madame Giry said, feigning surprise.

"No... what happened?"

She had, of course, already prepared a story. "I helped you walk here." It was almost the truth.

"When?" he cried in disbelief.

"About an hour ago."

"Putain," he muttered, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "I cannot recall it at all. I hardly remember anything since yesterday."

"I'm not surprised to hear that. I've never seen anyone so drunk - and I make a living chaperoning a troupe of chorus-girls." Her voice rose. "You were also beginning to show signs of methanol poisoning!"

"Is that so?" Erik said. "Remarkable."

Madame Giry lost her temper. "You fool! A whole bottle of cheap absinthe! What possessed you?"

"I cannot bring myself to care anymore, I find."

"You don't care?" she cried. "What about the people who have been in agony wondering if you would survive?"

"I suppose you want an apology."

Even coming from him, this truculence surprised her. "Whatever gave you that idea?" she said acidly.

"Well, you will not be getting one." He looked around and saw the bottle from the medicine cabinet sitting nearby. "Ah. Bicarbonate of soda. I suppose you saved my life?"

She did not dissimulate. "Yes. You were fortunate I was there."

To her surprise, he merely scowled. "How very moving."

"A show of gratitude would perhaps not go amiss, Erik," she said.

" _Gratitude_?" he sat up so suddenly she jumped. "Christine never wants to see me again!" He tried to say it coldly, but could not hide a note of despair; his voice broke near the end of the sentence. "She guessed that I am the Phantom. She despises me now. Of course she does." His eyes softened for a moment. "How could an innocent woman like her understand?" His face suddenly hardened again, and his eyes snapped back to her. "This is your doing! My life is over, and it is all because of you!"

"Me?" she said incredulously. Erik had a long-establishing habit of blaming his misfortunes on others - understandable, considering nearly all of them were the fault of others - but this was absurd.

"If you had not told me to stop posing as the Angel, this never would have happened! She would never have realized that I was the Phantom. At least I would still be able to talk with her! Now I cannot even do that! You've lost her to me forever! I will never see her again!"

Madame Giry's mind whirled. Until then, she had intended not to mention Christine's role in this whole affair. She'd begun to suspect that Christine's feelings were clouding her judgment where he was concerned, and she would have given a great deal to keep them separate until the girl had had time to come to her senses. But she realized now that there was no way to convince Christine to stay away from him completely. And moreover, it was simply too cruel to leave Erik in despair. One could argue that he deserved it, but whether or not that was true, she found she could not bring herself to do so. "Well..." she said, and then paused.

"What?" Erik snapped, impatient at her silence.

"As a matter of fact," she said at last, "Things may not be as hopeless as you imagine."

"What?" He scoffed. "Talk sense."

"Allow me to explain. First of all, I left a note on your behalf-"

"-On my behalf?"

"I said it was from you."

"-You forged my writing?"

"Yes. It was very easy to do; you write like a child. Don't look at me like that - I couldn't exactly tell her that I know you-"

"-There was no reason to be do it. She'll never take lessons from me again. She has Pauline Viardot-Garcia for an instructor now, thanks to that damned Vicomte." He rolled his eyes. "Shouldn't you be glad, that she has such an excellent instructor?"

"I was an excellent instructor."

"Well, then, perhaps you should have told her the truth."

"I did tell her the truth, and now she never wants to see me again!-"

"-That is what I am trying to tell you! She said she was very eager to see you again." Erik stared at her in astonishment. "You must have misunderstood."

"There were no two ways about it." He looked as though Madame Giry had just announced that he'd won the lottery. "Then... she doesn't despise me?"

"No," she said. "I can assure you she does not. I do not think she ever did."

For a long moment, he was silent. "Madame," he said at last. "I... I am sorry for the way I spoke to you. I know it wasn't your fault she and I had a... falling-out. I should not have blamed you. And I... thank you for looking after me. I owe you a great debt."

Madame Giry smiled at his sudden change in mood. "There is nothing to repay. Any decent person would have done the same." She paused. "Christine does not despise you. But she fears you, Erik. How could she not, after the things you have done?"

"I will change that," he vowed, his features set with determination. "I will prove to her she does not need to fear me."

"I must go," Madame Giry said quickly. "I have a telegram to send." He was too happy to protest. She made her way out of the grotto, leaving him, despite a splitting headache and raging thirst, in a better mood than he had been in weeks.

 ***I know your fingers are itching to plug this into Google translate. If you do, however, please don't blame me. ;) I'm not responsible for Erik's language. I do, however, take full responsibility for my suspiciously extensive familiarity with French profanity.**

As Madame Giry emerged onto Rue Scribe, it occurred to her that there was no need to send a telegram. Erik had awoken much more quickly than she had expected; Christine was undoubtedly still at rehearsal. It would be more efficient to simply go and tell her in person. When she came into the auditorium, the stage was milling with artists. The crowd was dense, and it took her several few minutes to find the leading lady - Christine, when she was not decked out in jewels and lavish costumes and singing stratospheric notes at the top of her voice, had a curious tendency to become invisible. At last Madame Giry spotted her, poring over the score with Monsieur Reyer. When Christine saw her, she abandoned what she was doing as quickly as possible and ran over to her. The question in her eyes was obvious.

"Mère," she said in a tremulous voice. "I was worried. How-?"

Before she could finish, however, Madame Giry was confronted by Monsieur Dubois, the stage-manager.

"Madame," he said, "I would speak with you in my office."

Swallowing a lump in her throat, Madame Giry hurried after him. Christine trailed behind them like a worried shadow, wringing her hands.

"Madame," said Dubois when he had settled into the chair behind his desk - he didn't invite her to sit - "Would you care to explain why you are over an hour late to rehearsal?" Christine hovered at the door like an uneasy spirit.

"I humbly apologize," Madame Giry said. "A, er, relation of mine was suddenly taken very ill. Not a close relation, thank Heaven, but I am all the family he has."

"Has he recovered?" Christine couldn't restrain herself from interjecting. She had her arms folded around her waist as though to shield herself from any bad news.

Dubois looked at her in surprise. _Why should you care so much_? his expression seemed to say.

Madame Giry smiled at her gently. "Yes, he seems to be recovering well. He awoke a few minutes before I returned here, and, er, we are optimistic about his condition. Er- thank you for asking, dear." Christine tried in vain to conceal her delight. "I am... glad to hear that," she said. Dubois blinked. "He... is an acquaintance of mine as well," Christine explained. Suddenly she had to hurry out of the room. In the hall, she doubled over, scarcely able to find her breath. She realized her heart was pounding, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into sobs. All the feelings she'd been ignoring, the bliss she'd been denying herself, rushed forth in a flood. Erik was safe. And her heart, if he chose to claim it, would be safe with Erik - she knew that now. She loved him, and he was a good man, and he was alive. She would not have to face a world that did not have him in it. She had been given another chance. It was almost too much happiness to bear. "Well... I'm sure we're all very relieved," she heard Dubois say, not without a hint of sarcasm, from inside the office. His voice seemed to come from worlds away. "But Madame Giry, why didn't you think to send a telegram informing us you would be late?"

"I should have, I see that now," Madame Giry said. "Forgive me. My mind was preoccupied."

"Hm. Hm. Well, see that this kind of thing does not happen again," Dubois said severely, and then, "Well, you've been with us for about a millennium; I suppose we can overlook this matter. That will do; you may go. And, er, see what's the matter with Mademoiselle Daae, won't you?"

"Yes, Monsieur. Thank you. I shall be on time tomorrow, you have my word." "Very well. Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon, Monsieur." A moment later, Madame Giry emerged from the office.

Christine pulled her a few feet down the hall and around a corner, out of earshot of Dubois. "Is he well?"

"Not yet, but I am confident he will be." Madame Giry found herself blinking back tears. "He is his usual self - irritable and ill-mannered, and yet all the same I am glad."

"Yes," Christine said, torn between laughter and tears. "Still, I am more glad than I can express." She paused to collect herself. "I must speak with him. Should I go after rehearsal? Is he recovered enough for a conversation? I would not wish to unsettle him when he is recovering, but..."

"...No. I told him you have something to tell him.""

"But I cannot bear to wait. Not now." Something in her tone disturbed Madame Giry.

"Christine," she said, whirling around so that she blocked her path. "What is it?" Christine said, surprised by the look on her face. "You look distressed."

"I am, I confess." She swallowed. Christine peered at her as though trying to decipher her expression. "If there is something you wish to say..."

"...There is," Madame Giry said. "But I'm sure you are needed onstage - the leading lady." She put a congratulatory hand on her shoulder. Christine smiled faintly. "Come and see me in my office after rehearsal has concluded," Madame Giry finished. Christine's face assumed a guarded look. "Very well."

"You must never breathe a word of what I am about to say to anyone," Madame Giry said that evening, as they faced each other in her dismal little office. "Especially Erik."

Christine regarded her uneasily. "I must warn you of something," Madame Giry went on. "It does not do to associate too much with him."

"I don't understand what you mean," Christine said. "You must... be careful where he is concerned. He is not a bad man. But just because he has a good reason for the crimes he has committed, that does not mean he is entirely to be trusted. I harbor a certain feeling of concern for him." She paused, reexamining what she had just said, and seemed to find it wanting. "No, I confess, I do love him in a way; I do not think that is overstating the matter. But that does not make me blind to his faults. Christine... I will be frank. He can be dangerous." "Do you really imagine he would hurt me?" Christine said. "I find that impossible to believe." "No, not deliberately," Madame Giry said. "That is not what I mean. But I fear he might easily make some terrible error... There are many things he does not understand. Be careful what you trust him with." "Let us be open with one another," Christine said. "There is no point in talking in code. You never used to be concerned about my having lessons with him. Why are things different now? Why all these warnings all of a sudden?" "Before," Madame Giry said, "You thought he was an angel." Christine's eyes narrowed. "Did you know he was the angel?" "Yes." "For how long?" Christine cried. Madame Giry swallowed. "From the beginning." They stared at each other in uncomfortable silence. "Well, there is no point in talking of that now. That is a discussion for another time," Christine said in a way that Madame Giry found distinctly ominous. "Now, as we were saying before - You say things are different now... now that I know he is a man. Are you worried that I've lost my ability to see clearly with regard to him? That I've fallen in love with him?" "Yes, I confess I am. Perhaps you do not realize it. But..." "...No. I do realize it," Christine said. Indeed, hearing confirm it had only given her further confidence in her feelings. Madame Giry choked. "I was afraid of this." "Afraid? But it is wonderful." Christine felt tears spring into her eyes. "It is a miracle. I know it is probably impossible that anything could ever come of it, but even so, it is the best thing that has ever happened to me." Madame Giry shook her head sadly. "Christine, he would not make anyone a good husband." "Husband?" Christine looked at her in surprise. "You sound as though we will be married by next week! I know it can never be." "Why do you say that, my dear?" Christine almost laughed. "Why? I am penniless, and he needs money, as we know. In addition to that, I have no family connections or breeding, I'm a foreigner, and I'm a heathen, besides. Why are you so uneasy about something that is only the remotest possibility?"

"If the Vicomte de Chagny does not object-"

"-Oh, yes, if the Vicomte has deigned to notice me," Christine cut in angrily, "Then of course Erik would be lucky to-"

"-That is not what I meant," Madame Giry said sharply. "All I intended to convey was that if a man from a family like the de Chagnys does not see your origins and your religion as objectionable, then Erik, who has no family dictating his movements, hardly would." As earlier, Christine looked caught between hope and fear. "Be honest with me. You know Erik better than anyone else. Is there any chance he might ever... return my feelings?" Madame Giry buried her face in her hand, caught in a bind. Erik would never forgive her if she told Christine of his love for her. But he would also be furious if he'd had a chance with Christine and she'd destroyed it by saying he did not love her. "I don't know," she said at last. It was a lie, but what choice did she have? "I don't understand what goes on in his mind. The only thing I can say with certainty is that you would never get a declaration of love from him. He is too afraid of having his suit rejected."

"Oh I see," Christine said slowly. "Why?"

"He has a very low opinion of himself."

"Well, I am sorry for that." Then, after a pause, "Thank you for speaking with me about this. I am grateful for your guidance."

Madame Giry gently squeezed her hand. "Be brave, my dear."

"I must," Christine said. "I don't know what lies ahead of me."

A few minutes later, she made her way out of the opera house, her mind in a whirl. Far from persuading her to be cautious, Madame Giry's warning had the opposite effect - it made up her mind. She would give it a few days, of course, she decided as she made her way to her omnibus stop. Time for Erik to recover, now that he was out of danger. And then, she would tell him. It hadn't been easy for her to come to the decision. Virtuous girls - and she considered herself to belong to that number - weren't supposed to declare their love. That was the gentleman's role. If a man admired a woman, he would tell her. Everyone knew that. But these were exceptional circumstances. Of course, he might still reject her after all. And if he did, the pain would be terrible. But it would nothing compared to thinking she had thrown away any chance of happiness with him. She must try.

Here I stand; I can do no other, so help me God, amen. Certain now of her course, that night she fell into a peaceful sleep.

At the next day's rehearsal, Christine went over _Me Voilà Seule dans la Nuit_ , one of Leïla's main numbers in emThe Pearl Fishers. That evening, however, she was singing it only for one person.

Here I am alone in the night, she began.

I shiver, and I am afraid... But...

Suddenly, her eyes were drawn to the left side of the darkened auditorium. She was sure she saw a shadow moving in Box Five. She threw back her head and sang more freely, more triumphantly, than ever before.

He is there! My heart senses his presence!

As before in the dark night,

He watches close to me in the shadows. I can sleep, dream in peace. He watches close to me, Like it was before...

It is he! My soul is assured.

Oh happiness! He has come! He is there near to me!

 **End of Chapter 12.**

* * *

 **What do you think? Was Madame Giry's concern understandable, or was she being unfair? Should Christine have been more open with her? What will she do if she finds out? And what is Raoul going to think of all this? Feel free to sound off in the comments or a pm! Thank you for reading! :)**


	13. Tremolo

_Love in a subtle dreame disguised_

 _Has both my heart and me surprised_

 _Whom never yet he durst attempt awake..._

Ben Johnson, _The Dreame_

* * *

 ** _Music suggestions: 'Your Hands Are Cold' played by Jean-Yves Thibaudet ('Pride and Prejudice' 2005 soundtrack); 'Addicted to a Certain Lifestyle' by David Arnold and Michael Price; 'The Woman' by David Arnold and Michael Price ('Sherlock Holmes' soundtrack)_**

* * *

 _A few days later_

The days went by and Christine didn't hear a word from him. She knew she couldn't expect it, but she couldn't help hoping all the same.

Each day Madame Giry brought some new good news. That same day he'd started drinking water by himself again; he couldn't stand being babied. Madame Giry was nervous he would choke, but he managed.

No sooner had he accomplished that than he was calling for staff paper. The next morning he was sitting up, eating, playing the violin again, demanding coffee. Soon there was no question about it - he would be well.

When Christine learned the good news, she gave Madame Giry a letter to give to him. Thinking it was only a get-well note, she had delivered it without question.

She hadn't been expecting any reply. However, just a few hours later, when she came out of rehearsal, she found an envelope slid under the door of her practice-room. She snatched it up at once and opened it with her heart in her throat.

Inside was a sheet of letter-paper, with a single sentence on it, written so large it took up a whole sheet. She smiled in spite of herself.

 _Would seven o'clock on Monday on the rooftop be convenient?_ it said.

 _Convenient?_ she thought, almost laughing in her joy. It was more than convenient. It was the most welcome invitation she had ever received. She would have jilted a meeting with the emperor to be able to keep it.

She spent twice as much time as usual taming her curls into submission that evening, even going so far as to arrange them into an elegant basket braid. She dusted her face with powder, even added a hint of rouge, and she chose her favorite gown - violet shot silk that shone turquoise when the light hit it at an angle, like some strange ethereal potion. She didn't know whether he liked the gown, or if he would even notice. But any small thing she could do that might make him look on her favorably. She had to win back his regard.

She hadn't been so nervous since her sudden audition for Hannibal. Though she had no fear of heights, as she reached the door that led to the roof, she found she was shaking.

He was already there waiting. He stood under the statue of Apollo, with its immense golden lyre. She sucked in her breath when she saw him. She had not realized til now how worried she still was.

As she stepped out onto the roof tiles, he whirled round to face her. "Christine!"

"Erik!" She could not stop herself from running up to him. "I am very glad indeed to see you! You are well?"

He looked surprised. "Well enough."

"Thank God," she said, unable to keep the emotion out of her voice.

"Forgive me - why did you wish to see me?"

"For… many reasons," she said, taken aback. "I must say - please allow me to tell you how sorry I am for the way I spoke to you."

"It is already forgiven," he said at once.

"Truly?" Relief washed over her.

He waved a hand as though it should be obvious. "Yes, yes-"

"Thank you! Erik, thank you!"

"-But... why have you changed your mind? That is the question," he said. There was suspicion in his eyes.

"Does there need to be a reason?"

"Yes, I rather think there does."

Christine decided on the truth. Now that they were finally out in the open, she didn't want there to be any more lies between them. "Madame Giry told me of the circumstances under which you met."

" _What_?" he cried.

"Yes."

"What do you mean?"

"How she, ah, helped you escape from the-"

 _"-_ Wait! Christine! But then you know…?"

"Know what?"

"About... this!" Erik lifted his hand to his face, unable to say it. _No, it cannot be. Surely should would not be here speaking to me..._

But then Christine nodded.

It was the most horrible moment of his life. He stared at her.

She looked uneasily back.

His silence stretched on for a quarter-rest.

A half-rest.

A full measure.

Christine watched his face as though watching a conductor, waiting for his cue on a particularly tricky passage.

She could not know, could not possibly understand how he was coming apart inside.

He had always known this moment would come, of course.

But that did not make it any easier.

He desperately wanted to lie, to say Madame Giry had invented the whole thing. But it would do no good. Even if he lied to her now, that would not change the facts. All she would have to do would be to take off his mask. The horrible evidence was there, impossible to destroy (though God knew he had tried). Separated from her only by half an inch of fabric and leather and glue, a defense that felt even flimsier to him than usual.

It was too late. The damage was done.

Suddenly he longed for the time a few days before when she had thought he was an ordinary criminal. Now she knew the truth that was infinitely worse. She knew what a monster he really was. Innocent of one crime, but guilty of another that was far worse. Guilty by nature, by his very makeup. A degenerate, sub-human.

And Madame Giry had given him away.

"Erik-" Christine said.

He felt as though his whole body were on fire with horror and rage. "That deceitful witch!" he cried, at last finding words.

"Do not speak of her thus!" Christine cried. "She had no choice but to tell me."

"No choice?"

"She found you lying in a tunnel."

"What?"

"After you drank the absinthe - you were sick - you were hardly breathing-"

"-Good God," he groaned, humiliated. "But why did this charming picture necessitate her dragging you into that sorry affair?"

"She needed my help to get you back to your, ah, home. If we had not gotten you near the fire you would have perished from the cold."

"Oh." His anger faded away and he was left with nothing but shame. "I see."

"Erik…" Christine ventured. "I am wretchedly sorry for what you have endured…"

He scarcely heard her. "-I am sorry I did not tell you," he said, utterly wretched. His voice sounded shriveled and small. "I deceived you."

"Deceived me?"

"I should have told you what I was. Great God, what must you think of me?"

"There is nothing to apologize for. Indeed, frankly I think better of you than I did before, if you will forgive me for saying so."

He stared at her in astonishment for a moment. He would not dignify such an absurd remark with a response. Of course she did not think better of him. She saw him for what he really was now. "Why are you here?" he asked at length instead.

"What do you mean?" she said, taken aback.

"Now that you know this - why should you want to be anywhere near me?"

"What do you mean? The essential things are unchanged-"

"-Christine, _why_?" he shouted.

For a moment she stood frozen. "I am fond of you," she said at last. What a wretched, pathetic, insulting understatement. But now was not the time for grandiose declarations of love. He had had a difficult enough time of it these past few days as it was.

" _Fond_ of me?"

"Well, that is not quite the right word; you are right," she said uneasily, mistaking his incredulity for contempt. "I treasure our conversations. I want us to enjoy each other's company as before."

This was more than he could ever have expected. Still, he could not stand before her every day. Not now. The shame… "That will not be possible, for a number of reasons," he said at last.

 **Music suggestions: 'I've Seen Hell' by Martin Phipps ('North and South' soundtrack)**

"What? But surely it is!"

"No - you see, I am going away," he said.

"What?" she cried.

"Yes."

"What do you mean?" she cried. "Why? Where? When? For how long?"

"Indefinitely," he said, giving the answers as they came to him. "And as soon as possible."

"But where? Far away?"

"It is safer that you do not know." Indeed, he did not know himself. All he knew was that he could never bear to look Christine in the eyes again now that she knew. His life was over.

"But-"

"-After all, you should not be associated with a criminal," he said bitterly.

"Then I shall not be able to write, even?"

He sneered. "Why should you?"

She winced. _Have I entirely misunderstood? Does it all mean nothing to him?_ "We cannot simply part and never hear from one another again. You cannot go."

"I think you will find that I can."

"Is there anything that could make you change your mind?"

"What?" He looked at her in surprise. "No... Nothing."

"But - oh, please no!" Christine felt tears fill her eyes. "You cannot go away!"

"Why should you get to dictate my movements?"

"I don't mean to; I simply-"

"-You have never cared whether I lived or died!" he cried with sudden bitterness.

"That is not true!"

"What are you crying for?" he scoffed.

"I was angry when I found out you were the Phantom, but I still cared-"

"-No - no - I was just a means to an end for you, that much is very evident."

"How can you say that?- What must you think of me-"

"-Now that you have your lessons with Pauline Viardot-García, I am hardly of any use to you. Why should you care where I go?"

" _Because_ _I am in love with you_!" she cried. There, it was out.

Erik tripped and caught himself clumsily on the statue. The whole earth had been shaken lose from its foundation and was now crashing through the universe unmoored. Was this some after-effect of the absinthe? Or perhaps he had started to suffocate and this was a hallucination as the result of a brain injury.

"I am sorry for telling you at a time like this," Christine went on, blissfully unconscious of the irreconcilable cosmic disorder she had just created. "But I could not help myself. If my affections are unwelcome to you, I shall never say another word on the subject for as long as I live. But to remain silent would have killed me."

"In love?" he managed at last. He had to stop himself from flinging his hands up in the air and laughing hysterically. _Well, Erik, you fool, you've finally lost your mind. You're hearing things. We all knew this day had to come._

Tears gathered in Christine's eyes. "Yes. Oh, don't look at me like that, I entreat you. Please, say something - anything. You don't know what you are doing to me, to stand there and look at me like that. If you are going to reject me, come out and tell me. Please, give me some kind of answer. I deserve that at least."

There were a thousand things he could have said in return. French was a beautiful language; he could have put together any number of mellifluous replies - that is, if he could think of anything coherent to say at all. But no - instead, out of every possibility, the word his brain chose to extract from the language was " _Why_?"

Christine blinked. She had gone over every imaginable scenario in her head, but she had not anticipated this. "Pardon?"

"In love - with me - why? Why did you say that?" he said mechanically. "What do you want from me? I don't understand. You cannot be in love with me. It does not make sense."

She looked at him in bewilderment. "But it makes perfect sense," she said. "Tell me you can see it too. It seems so right to me, so obvious now, that I wonder how I never saw it before."

"But..."

"When I thought you were the angel, I told you everything, all the darkest thoughts in my heart, and you weren't repelled by me - you understood. You saved me once when I was younger and now you've saved me again, even if you don't realize it."

"Saved you?" he echoed.

"Yes," she said. "I used to be so lonely and afraid, but I am not anymore. I have only to think of you, and then I find I have all I need."

He stared at her in astonishment. He understood exactly the feeling she was describing - it was precisely what she meant to him. Had she been reading his thoughts?

Christine looked alarmed by his silence.

"Yes, I am foreign and a Protestant, and I daresay most people think I am half-mad," she said, backpedaling. "You could do far better in most people's eyes. If you would prefer we remain as we are... I certainly shall not blame you... But... if I could dare to hope for more... that you might think of me as more, as your love... then that... that would be the greatest happiness I could imagine." She paused. "I shall never become Catholic," she suddenly added. "I have not forgotten myself that much. I am a committed heathen. If that is unacceptable to you, then I quite understand. But I would do anything else to be with you, anything that was right."

For some reason, it was this little stipulation that made it finally begin to seem real to him. He would not have dreamed that. "That... doesn't matter," he managed, almost laughing. "If you only knew how little that matters to me."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Then…?"

"Christine..." For a moment, Erik looked at her with infinite hope, as vulnerable as a child.

For that split second, he was happier than he had ever been in his life. The music that was ever-present in his mind, underscoring his feelings, exploded - a hundred symphonies playing at once. It soaked into him, giving him warmth, giving him life and light.

But it was not strong enough.

He felt the darkness in him reassert itself. The part of him that had learned to distrust everything good or kind as a trap.

The music turned sour. It was slow and ominous now - tense, menacing strings. It was a warning. Something was wrong.

 _She doesn't believe you could reject her,_ said the voice of all his fears and doubts. The voice of his keeper, entrapping him still even now. _The thought hasn't even occurred to her. She expects you to fall to your knees and do her bidding. She only thinks how lucky you would be to have her, what a favor she is doing you._

He would rather be alone for the rest of his life than stomach that.

"Erik?" Christine said.

He shook himself out of his stupor and focused on her lovely face, still hovering before him. The expression of love and truth in her eyes suddenly seemed as false as a painting.

"Why did you never say anything until now?" he said at last in a slow, icy voice. Each word was like a heavy stone being dropped into the water.

She looked at him in confusion. "Because I did not think I could trust you. I didn't think there could be an honest reason for you to hide your face. One must admit it is a somewhat unusual practic-"

"-Hmh. Well, that is a very convenient excuse, but it is not the real reason why."

"What do you mean?" she said.

"There's only one explanation for this sudden change." Suddenly he exploded, bounding toward her like an animal, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Now that you've learned what a freak I am, now that you know there's no risk of your affection being rejected, you seem quite comfortable in bestowing it!"

"What?" she said in disbelief, too stunned to form any other words.

"Oh, you played your part very well," he said, with a grin that was more like a sneer. "But a little too well, I am afraid. The part where when you said you didn't know if I would accept was particularly touching. One of your better performances. Why, if you would only take such care on the stage, Paris would be yours."

"That was cruel of you to say! This was not playacting," she said, the tears that had been standing in her eyes beginning to overflow again. "I am not some consumptive princess pining away for her lover. You know I am telling the truth. You know I would not lie about a matter like this. And you are wrong - there is another explanation. That I have only now realized that I love you. I am only sorry for being so stupid - for taking so long to see what should have been obvious."

He hated her for not understanding. "I suppose you expect me to fall at your feet. To say how fortunate I am that you've condescended to notice me."

"No," she said, astonished. "I assure you, I expected no such thing." She blinked back the tears in her eyes, angry at herself for showing how wounded she was. "I had hoped we would be equals. I never expected you to thank me. I don't want gratitude."

"Yes, you did expect that. No doubt you believe that all I ever dreamt of was loving you - that I have spent all this time gazing at you from the shadows like some lovesick puppy? That you were everything I ever dreamed of."

"No - but you were everything I ever dreamed of," she said, no longer bothering to hide her tears.

"Oh, spare me your histrionics! You think I am nothing-"

"-No!"

"-You never imagined I could reject you! Well, see here, I am! Even I possess dignity enough not to accept your sniveling offer of affection. What do you say to that, _hein_?" He drew himself up to his full height, towering over her triumphantly.

She stared at him in astonishment and horror, scarcely able to breathe. "So this is what you think of me?"

"Yes, it is!" he cried. "What else could I think? You are goodness and light! A monster like me could never love something as pure and innocent as you! I would never dare soil you with my affection! Congratulations, Mademoiselle - you have had a very lucky escape this evening. I'm sure you will have no trouble finding other admirers. Now go and find some rich aristocrat."

"I don't want-"

"-Run along, now. Go on. Go!" The last sound echoed off the rooftops like the cry of a wounded animal.

Christine was sobbing openly now. At his look, she withered further. She turned to go, withdrawing into herself. At the last moment, however, she paused to look over her shoulder. "Dear God," she said, "What has the world done to you? What must you have endured?"

"I daresay you can guess, since you have gone and found out the whole story. Why don't you put that excessively active imagination of yours to use, if you are so curious?"

She stared at him for a moment in silence. "You will not make me stop loving you," she said at last. "You act as though it tainted you to be loved by me. Well, I am afraid you cannot change it. I am sorry to say you will never be rid of my 'sniveling affections'."

Outwardly, Erik remained impassive, but inwardly, his mind was whirling. He wanted to move but found he could not.

Dragging herself away like a wounded animal, Christine disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell.

He watched her go, dizzied by all that had taken place. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined he would ever be in a position to reject someone. (And she deserved it, of course. Any fool who was stupid enough to lower themselves to loving such a monster deserved the contempt of everyone.) The darkness in him luxuriated in the thrill of it. He was shocked by the power of it. It coursed through him. It was exhilarating, like lightning.

It lasted scarcely any longer, however.

As soon as the catalyst of her presence, which always drove him into a frenzy of emotion, was removed, the deadly progress of his rage began to wind down.

All at once he came to his senses. He remembered where he was. He remembered what had happened - though he did not understand it.

Christine. Christine had been here.

Had he hurt her?

He tore after her.

He found her a few yards along the corridor, walking as though in a trance. He called out her name, but she did not respond. In desperation, he caught at her shoulder.

She whirled around. Her eyes were red and her face shone with tears. She looked ten years older than the shy girl who had come into the grotto a few minutes before.

"What do you want from me now?" she cried in a raw, ugly voice utterly unlike her own.

He snatched his hand away as though it would burn her. Had he done this to her? "Christine," he said, "I... I spoke harshly. I didn't understand. I..."

"No," she said. "Don't. You have every right to reject me." Though before she had slipped into calling him by the informal 'tu', now she had reverted to 'vous', with all its cold formality. "I was presumptuous."

"No-"

"-I forgot myself. I only hope you can understand that it was done out of love. Perhaps you cannot understand it... I hardly know. I don't know in what way I have insulted you, but do forgive me. I didn't know it would be such an outrage to you to..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

He had not expected this quiet acceptance. She always stood up for herself. He even liked arguing with her.

This was different - this was horrifying. What had he done to her? Where was the fire he remembered in her? Had he put it out?

He had hurt her. He didn't know how, but he had. "Christine..." he began.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't even a beginning. But he found he couldn't think of anything else to say. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this.

"I must go," Christine said. "I have trespassed here long enough." Her voice broke in a sob, and she started down the spiral staircase that led back to the opera. Halfway down the first turn, she tripped and fell on her knees with a cry of pain.

He ran to catch her. "Christine!"

"-Let me alone!" she cried, furious and humiliated, shoving him away and staggering to her feet.

He sprang back. Bewildered and heartbroken and reeling with regret, he was so confused he simply watched her walk away.

 **Music suggestions: 'Look Back' by Martin Phipps ('North and South' soundtrack)**

Christine emerged from the tunnel at the gate on Rue Scribe and wandered aimlessly past the opera house, scarcely aware of where she was going. She didn't care. Everything sailed by her in a blur. Snatches of conversation passed through her mind without leaving any trace of meaning.

"Pull up to the curve, Martin," she heard a voice say from the street nearby her.

Martin was the name of Raoul's driver, she thought distantly. That was a coincidence. And the voice sounded like Raoul's, too...

And suddenly Raoul was standing in front of her on the sidewalk, peering at her with a delighted smile. "Christine!"

Christine blinked, coming out of her stupor.

She saw now that his carriage, an elegant brougham, had alighted beside her. She had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she had not noticed.

Raoul tipped his hat, still with the same happy smile. "I was just coming to the Opera to see if perhaps you were still there."

She quickly choked back her tears. The last thing she needed was to have to try to explain to him why she had been crying.

He was waiting for a reply; she said the first coherent sentence that presented itself to her thoughts. "Your timing is impeccable. I, er, just came out." Well, not exactly out of the opera house itself, but that was the general idea, she thought wryly.

"Where are you going?" he asked pleasantly.

Where _was_ she going? She hadn't given it any thought. She might have walked the length of Paris without noticing if he hadn't come by. "Home, I think."

If this was a strange thing to say, Raoul had the good grace not to notice. "You should not be walking alone at night-time," he said instead. "It isn't safe."

"This is the Opéra district, not a battleground," she said, equally touched and amused by his concern. After Erik's cruelty, his consideration felt as reviving as sunlight. "And my stop isn't far."

"Your stop?"

She almost laughed. "For my omnibus."

He looked faintly disgusted. "A young lady traveling alone shouldn't have to take the omnibus. What kind of gentleman would I be? Allow me to escort you?" Turning toward the brougham, he held out one gloved hand with a gentle smile.

Though the prospect of passing the long journey home in a comfortable carriage was appealing, Christine hesitated.

Suddenly Raoul's expression changed. He peered off into the distance with a concerned look on his face.

"What is it?" Christine said.

"There's a fellow over there, by the opera house, watching us. No, don't look. Call it military instinct, but there is something about his manner I do not like at all."

Christine jumped. She knew exactly who that was.

Well, she certainly wasn't going to stay here with him around. In a split second, she'd taken Raoul's hand. "I should be very glad of your company," she said. "Thank you."

"Yes," Raoul said. "Let us go."

* * *

Erik shook himself free from his stupor and ran down the stairs. Reasoning that Christine would have left the building, he tore outside, pausing only to turn up his collar to hide the mask. Running down the steps, he frantically scanned the street, thinking for a split second each time that every curly-haired brunette he saw was her.

At last, he spotted her - the turquoise flash of her dress caught his eye. She was moving swiftly away down the boulevard. He could see by her posture that she was weeping, not bothering to conceal her tears. He already knew that was because of him.

He was torn between wanting to run to her - he couldn't think of anything intelligent to say, but surely anything would be better than leaving matters as they now stood - and wanting to run to the nearest bridge and throw himself into the Seine.

Then, however, he was distracted from these thoughts as a carriage pulled up beside her.

Erik knew who the owner was long before he got out. He'd seen that coat of arms nearly every day outside the opera house. It had a particularly detested place in his memory.

As he watched, the Vicomte de Chagny emerged from his carriage and alighted in front of Christine.

Why did he have to come by now of all times? Erik thought. He couldn't go up to her now. She might ask the fop to shoot him.

He wouldn't blame her.

He stayed where he was, watching them, miserably transfixed.

The Vicomte tipped his hat to Christine and said something - Erik would have given a fortune to know what. She hurriedly tried to dry her tears and produced a smile - forced, he thought, though perhaps that was just his overactive imagination.

The pair spoke for a few moments.

Erik thought his heart would stop as Christine smiled, genuinely this time, at something the Vicomte said.

He would have given anything to be the cause of that smile - but no, he had made her cry, because he always destroyed everything innocent and beautiful that came his way, and that boy would be the one to console her.

At last he had the presence of mind to turn away - if he stayed much longer, he would probably end up strangling the fool, and he didn't want to do that. (Not in front of Christine, at least.)

He hurried away and buried himself in the tunnels once more, like the miserable creature of darkness he was.

* * *

Steadied by Raoul's hand, Christine clambered into the carriage. With its splendid interior, it felt like climbing into an immense Fabergé egg.

As she ascended the steps, the hem of her coat caught on the doorway, and the lamplight fell on the shimmering folds of silk beneath.

Raoul's keen eye, accustomed to such luxuries, noted the quality of it immediately. "That is a splendid gown," he said, sounding surprised.

She knew he was wondering who had bought it for her.

"Thank you," she said. "Now that I have my contract, there is some money for nice things, at least. And the managers are very insistent that I have a presentable wardrobe."

"Ah," Raoul said, looking relieved.

Martin shut the door and clambered into the driver's seat. Raoul knocked on the ceiling, and the carriage began to roll smoothly along the boulevard.

"Are you coming from one of your many publicity engagements, then?" he asked Christine.

"No, nothing like that."

"Oh?" he pressed.

He was incorrigible, Christine thought, irritated in spite of herself. "A small party with a few friends." She winced at the lie.

"I see. You know, of course," Raoul told Christine, leaning back in his seat, "That I should be happy to buy a gown for you on any occasion. You need only ask."

"Thank you. I am grateful for your generosity," she said. For some reason she could not understand, the idea repulsed her. "But I'm not sure it would be quite proper to accept." A single flower from Erik would be worth more to her than all the lavish gowns in the world. The thought came to her from out of nowhere. But no, she was never going to get anything like that from him. Why was it that a man who could not stir her heart showered her with unending affection while the one man who made her soul soar, who filled her heart with music, despised her? She turned her head away to hide a sudden flood of tears.

But Raoul was too fast - he spotted them at once. He gently caught hold of her chin and turned her face toward him. "You _are_ crying," he said, his voice tender with concern.

There was no point in trying to hide it now. She shrugged, drawing a ragged breath.

"I hope your circumstances are not distressing you," Raoul said, putting a hand on her arm. "They are treating you well at the Opéra? You are satisfied with the terms of your contract?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you." Christine paused. "It is a privilege to sing such exquisite music. I am fortunate beyond belief, in that respect. But the rest of it... the chance of fame and fortune... it all seems so empty... what is the point of it all if there are things you want that they can never bring you?"

Raoul looked as though he thought he understood. "Like bringing your father back?" he said with infinite gentleness.

"Oh. Why... yes," Christine replied. It was a convenient excuse. She sent a silent prayer of apology Heavenward for using her father in a such a monumental lie. Well, it wasn't entirely a falsehood. She would always miss him - nothing, even time, could ever fully take that ache away - and all her successes would be in some measure tinged by the knowledge that he was not there to rejoice with her.

But that wasn't what she was thinking of now.

For a moment, the two of them were silent.

"I cannot claim to have known losses as heavy as yours, but I think in a way I can understand, a little," he ventured at last.

"Oh?"

He sighed. "Everyone says I am one of the luckiest men who ever breathed, but what is the point of having money or influence if I cannot have the woman I love?"

The thought hit Christine like an express train: Was she doing to his heart what Erik had done to hers? The last thing she wanted was to ever cause anyone as much pain as she had experienced tonight.

She turned toward him. Raoul. Dear, good Raoul, so patient and steadfast, so concerned for her well-being. He had always been there. He had never scorned or mocked her. She had been so ungrateful to him.

"Forgive me," he said. "I did not intend to..."

"No," she said. "There is no need to apologize. Raoul... you..."

Their eyes met and for a moment both of them were silent.

All at once, Raoul leaned forward, taking her in his arms. He tenderly kissed her hand, her forehead, her cheek, and then suddenly his lips came to rest on hers.

Christine didn't protest.

At least someone wanted her. Erik was right about that.

 ** _End of Chapter 13_**


	14. Contrary Motion

Chapter 14

* * *

It was the first time Christine had been properly kissed. All this time, she had expected it would be something thrilling. But all she was aware of was a vague sense of disappointment. Was this all? It wasn't that Raoul did anything wrong. He clearly knew what he was doing - it seemed he had had more practice in the intervening years than she had. His lips were gentle, careful, on hers. She felt safe in his arms. But where was the fire everyone spoke of?

Most of all, suddenly she somehow felt terribly lonely - more lonely even than if she had been walking back to her appartement by herself in the cold. She had never felt farther from him that she did at this moment. Never had it been so apparent to her that he hadn't the slightest idea what went on in her heart.

For all the while, she was thinking of Erik.

Eventually, the carriage turned up a steep hill. The sudden motion jilted her away from Raoul.

He smiled blissfully at her, holding her hand between his. She had hoped he would be as disappointed by the kiss as she had been, but clearly that was not the case - evidently he had enjoyed it far more than she had.

"Christine, may one dare ask - does this mean you've made up your mind?" he asked in a soft voice, looking eagerly into her face.

 _What?_ Christine stared at him in panic. She hadn't imagined for a moment - if she had thought at all - that he would attach so much significance to a kiss.

Surely a man like him - wealthy, powerful, handsome - would have had a long line of beautiful, glamorous, sophisticated mistresses. The sort of women who carried their hearts around coolly, who collected wealthy lovers like trophies, whose kisses meant nothing.

"No," she managed at last. "I... I have not."

"Why... But... I didn't think..." Raoul raked a hand through his handsome head of blond hair, looking shaken. "Christine, I know the way of the world, but... I did not imagine _you_ would do something like this unless... unless you'd quite made up your mind you were going to marry me! Unless we were practically engaged!"

Christine stared at him in horror. What had she done? Oh, poor Raoul! "I… I'm so sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have… Oh, forgive me. I am fond of you-"

" _Fond_ of me?"

"...But... I did not mean for… _this_ to happen. It was simply an... an accident."

"Oh," he said simply, his eyes wide with shock.

"I... I'm so dreadfully sorry!" she cried.

"No… forgive me," he said, though he looked devastated. He slumped back in his seat. "I can see I have been utterly presumptuous. I should not have taken advantage of you."

"Oh, Raoul… You did nothing of the sort."

"Please do not imagine that I invited you into the carriage for the purpose of seducing you," he said.

Christine almost laughed. "I know you did not. You-"

Raoul suddenly reached up and rapped on the carriage roof. The horse clattered to a halt.

"Why are we stopping?" Christine asked, certain she was about to be ordered to walk home.

Raoul sprang out of the carriage. "Take Mademoiselle where she needs to go and then drive home," he called up to Martin.

Christine blinked. "What?"

"I shall find a cab." Raoul shut the door.

"No, Raoul, wait!"

"I... I wish you a pleasant evening, Mademoiselle," he said through the window, his voice shaking.

"Oh, Raoul, don't call me that," she pleaded. "As though we were strangers. As though..." But he was gone. He'd plunged away into the darkness.

* * *

They saw each other around the opera house from time to time over the next few days, but he did not say a word to her about the matter. Christine wasn't sure if she was glad about that or not.

When she did hear about it again, it was, to her surprise, from another source entirely.

When she came through the artists' entrance of the Opéra two days later - she knew great divas like La Carlotta could parade in through the grand salon if they wished, and it would have been easier, but she preferred not to test her status - she was immediately cornered by an angry-looking Firmin.

"Mademoiselle," he said, stepping in front of her, "I would speak with you." He spat out the words with contempt.

Christine looked at him in surprise. He was always irritable but this was the first occasion in a long time when his ire had been directed specifically at her. She judged it best to appear meek and subordinate. "What would you like to say, Monsieur?"

"I don't have time to mince words," he said, drawing her into a corner and lowering his voice. "I have been informed that the Vicomte de Chagny may be leaving." Christine could not have been more astonished. "What? Leaving the Opéra?"

"Leaving France." His moustache bristled, and he spat out the words. "For quite some time, if I am correctly informed."

"Oh, I am... sure it is not true," she said, though her voice betrayed to both of them that she was not sure at all. "The last I heard, he certainly planned to remain in the city for the foreseeable future."

"Well, his plans, it appears, have changed. And a rumor has reached my ears that it is because of you."

Christine tried not to squirm. "I do not see how that could be. What rumor have you heard?"

"What have you done to upset him?" Firmin demanded.

What did he know? She decided the best approach was to seemed shocked and outraged. "I beg your pardon! I... nothing. Isn't a young man free to come and go as he pleases? Why must this have anything to do with me?" She almost winced - she didn't even sound convincing to herself. Where was Christine Daae, the noted actress? She couldn't have fooled a child right now.

Firmin narrowed his eyes. "Mademoiselle, you are in a precarious position."

"I, er, I am afraid don't understand," Christine stammered awkwardly.

"Oh, don't be demure," he scoffed. "Everyone knows you are the reason he patronizes the Opéra."

"With respect, Monsieur, that cannot be true. He and his parents decided to become the patrons before he ever saw me."

"Perhaps that was true before," Firmin said. "But he gives us a great deal more money now because of you; everyone knows that - it's no secret."

"Well, the Comte and Comtesse de Chagny are where the real money is, and Raoul's leaving the country might make them more likely to favor us," she said. "They can't be happy with the idea of their son's courting a Swedish singer. Perhaps they are the ones who are sending him away, if indeed he is going - which I am not convinced, based on what you have told me, that he is."

"Do not interrupt me," Firmin snapped. "You're not supposed to be clever, Daae. You're supposed to sing, and to make us money. And right now, the main reason you are doing both of those things is because of the Vicomte." He leaned toward her and lowered his voice still further. "I warn you now. We need his patronage far more than we need you, or any of your ridiculous little friends, for that matter. Whatever you may choose to deny... _don't_ do anything to upset him. Do you understand me?"

And he walked away, leaving Christine with a distinct chill.

She was in an agony of anxiety until she next saw Raoul - which, as it happened, was later that afternoon, in the auditorium.

"Christine!" he cried, running up to her. He'd dispensed for once with the usual greetings.

"Am I Christine again?" she said in a low voice, surprised but pleased.

"Not Mademoiselle?"

"If you want to be," he said, adopting her quiet tone.

"I do," she said. "I don't want us to talk as if we were merely acquaintances."

She wanted to ask about what Firmin had said, but before she could, he spoke.

"Well," he said, "I have a piece of news."

"News?" She braced herself.

"I am going on a naval voyage to the Arctic," he announced. "To the North Pole, as a matter of fact."

"The _North Pole_?" Christine cried. She had known he was probably going away, admittedly - but she had imagined it would be to Austria or Italy or somewhere of the kind. This was unbelievable. This was absurd.

"Yes." Raoul squared his shoulders.

"But you hate the cold!"

"It is a great honor to have been selected." Raoul looked as though he were trying to convince himself. "It is a tremendous undertaking."

"But-"

"-This could be the making of my career, you know. A chance to prove myself - to not always have people saying I've only done well because of who my father is."

"I can understand that," Christine said quietly.

"Thank you."

"Er- How long would you be gone?"

"Several months at least." His voice changed, adopting a note of urgency. "And Christine, I-"

 _Oh, dear_. Christine wasn't sure she wanted to hear what he was going to say. "-When does the ship depart?" she asked quickly.

"This week."

"This week?" Christine's mind whirled. This was all happening so quickly.

"Yes," Raoul said, "But I wanted to-"

 _Oh, no_. "-Is there... Is there, er, any chance you would... see Sweden on your journey?" she asked, fumbling for things to say.

"-No, alas-"

"-Yes, I suppose it would be out of your way-"

"-But we will make port in Norway-"

"-Oh, how delightful!" she exclaimed, a little too brightly. "My father's family hailed from there originally, you know."

"Yes, I remember," he said gently, "But that isn't-"

"-You will probably stop in Alesund, of course. I am glad; the scenery is supposed to be spectacular," she prattled anxiously. "I suppose Oslo is too far out of your way, but that's of no importance; after all, what is there to see in Oslo, really?" She laughed awkwardly.

"-You aren't giving me a chance to say what I am trying to tell you," Raoul said gently.

Christine stopped, defeated. "Oh?"

"It will be a perilous voyage," he said solemnly.

"Oh, Raoul-"

"-Christine, I know you do did not want to speak of my feelings any longer, but I may perish-"

"-Oh, Raoul!" she cried, distraught. "That isn't fair! You can't use that against me!"

"I don't mean to. All I mean to say is this: Don't make me go without hope," he said simply. "That is all. If you are going to reject me altogether, at least please wait until I am safely returned. And if I do not, then well, I will have died a happy man."

"I-"

"-Please, don't say yes or no. Just don't say anything on the matter," he pleaded.

Christine's mind whirled. What was the point? It wasn't as though she was engaged to anyone else. Erik was never going to marry her. She swallowed. "Very well. I... was merely going to wish you a safe journey," she said, trying to smile.

Raoul's face took on a look of understanding and infinite gratitude. "Thank you. Thank you." He kissed her hand and started to turn away.

"Raoul…" He stopped and half turned round.

"Yes?"

"Monsieur Firmin said you might not patronize the Opéra anymore," she said anxiously.

He stared at her. "Whatever made him think that?"

"The fact that you are leaving," she said simply.

"And you believed it?" he said, looking annoyed.

"I'm not sure what to believe anymore," she said quietly. "Nothing is as I think it is. I feel as though the whole world is coming apart at the seams."

"How very enigmatic of you," he said irritably. "Well, you can believe this: Of course I shall continue supporting the Opéra. You cannot imagine me so petty as to withdraw my patronage simply because of a … personal matter."

"Thank you," she said, truly moved.

"Don't thank me. It is not because of you," he said, cutting to the chase. "You are not the whole opera company, you know. There are other lives here which matter besides your own."

"You are right," she said quietly.

There was an awkward, painful silence.

"Let us not part on bad terms," he said abruptly.

"Yes," she said, coming round. "Well, then. I suppose I must say goodbye."

"Yes. Goodbye. I wish you the very best and safest of journeys. And all the happiness in the world. Truly."

"Thank you," Raoul said sadly. "And you."

Unable to manage any more, he simply kissed her hand and turned to go. Christine watched him walk away, her mind brimming with things she was sure she should have said, but could not quite find a way to put into words.

 **Well, that's him gotten rid of! *Dusts off hands* Now to deal with our star-crossed lovers** …

Erik's heartbroken rage at the thought of the Vicomte carrying off Christine overcame his fear of speaking to her again. He could not bear to face her alone, however, so he decided to enlist Meg's help. He'd made a promise to Madame Giry that he would not drag her daughter into their associations. But he was too afraid, too ashamed, to tell Madame Giry what he'd done. He could not bear for her to learn what a mess he'd made of things. How he'd hurt Christine after she'd done him the immeasurable honor of saying he deserved a chance with her.

It took some time. Wherever Meg went Christine was there too.

That was no surprise, all things considered. He could hardly blame Christine for wanting to avoid him.

At last, however, one day Meg forgot her pointe shoes and went back to the rehearsal-rooms by herself to get them. When she emerged into one of the deserted back corridors of the opera-house, he stole in front of her.

She let out a little yelp of surprise.

"Forgive me; I do not wish to frighten you," he said.

She squared her shoulders, looking embarrassed by her outburst. "I'm not frightened of you, Erik or whatever your name really is," she said under her breath, although she had taken a step back. "As a matter of fact, I am glad you are here - I shall finally tell you what I think of you."

"Erik?" he said, backing away slightly in turn. "I don't know who you mean."

"Don't try that nonsense with me," Meg said, and Erik saw a hint of Madame Giry in the steely look she gave him. "Christine has told me who you are. And she has told me what you said to her."

"But you haven't told the police about me?" he said in surprise.

"I'm not sure I know enough to help them," she pointed out logically. "But yes, even if I did, I wouldn't tell them. I'm not going to tell anyone."

He could see by her expression that she meant it.

"Thank you," he said in surprise.

"Do not thank me," she said sharply. "It isn't for your sake."

"Then whose? No one else would care."

"Christine's, of course, you imbecile!" she said. "She would care very much. If you were sent to prison she would be devastated."

"Why?" he asked, utterly bewildered.

Meg stared at him. "Because she is - was - in love with you!" she cried. "I was certainly under the impression that she made that perfectly clear to you - although it seems she is not worthy of your exalted affections!"

"That is not true. She cannot love me. She has better taste than that."

"Do you suppose she was lying, then? Christine Daae would never lie about that," Meg said angrily.

"I don't know. I cannot understand it. I know it is not in her nature to be deceitful, but..." He paused. "I suppose he thought that the Vicomte... his influence... I have made an enemy of him - he would love to see me led into some trap."

"But-" Meg stopped. She had been about to say that Christine and de Chagny couldn't possibly be in league about anything - that they'd had a falling-out so ugly he'd stormed off on some ridiculous expedition to the North Pole - but just in time she thought better of it, and stopped short. She didn't want to give Erik any encouragement.

"The Vicomte tried for weeks to get her to make a break with you, and she refused. The girl is as stubborn as a mule. She doesn't let anyone order her about. I don't think he has any kind of 'influence' over her. Besides, Christine would never toy with a man's affections. That would be beneath her. She would never let anyone talk her into doing it."

"Why... you are right," Erik said, almost in a whisper.

If Christine would lie to a man about her affections, then she was not the generous, principled woman he thought. There was no choice but to believe she was telling the truth - that some incomprehensible miracle had taken place and she truly did love him somehow.

The only other alternative was to give up his exalted view of her. And that was impossible. If Christine Daae was not good and kind and principled, then the whole world would be senseless, pointless - he might as well not even be alive.

She had been telling the truth. He'd been a fool not to realize it before. She loved him. Christine. Regret fell upon him like a vicious animal, ripping him to shreds, drinking his blood, swallowing him whole. He'd had love in his hands - the love of the one creature on earth he worshipped - and he'd thrown it away. This was more cruel than never having had it at all. And yet, in the midst of all that regret, there was something else. A glimmer of hope. By far the most dangerous, the most treacherous thing in Pandora's box.

"You really didn't know she loved you?" Meg said, looking at him in bewilderment.

"No." Her use of the past tense sent him into an agony of despair. He wasn't sure why. He could never have been a lover to her anyway. Why regret what could not be?

"Why should you doubt her?" Meg said.

He looked at her in surprise. "How much do you know about me?"

"Almost nothing. I know you taught Christine to sing, and that you claim your name is Erik, or Alphonse Masson, but it probably isn't either one. And of course, I have known for quite some time that you are the Phantom. Or at least, that you are responsible for some of the things attributed to the Phantom."

 _Clever girl_ , Erik couldn't help thinking. _Not quite as clever as Christine, but nonetheless, very bright_. "Is that all?" he asked.

"I believe so, yes. Christine won't tell me anything about you."

"Ah." Erik's shoulders slumped with relief. Christine had not betrayed his secret. Not even to her closest friend. He was flooded anew with a sense both of how much he loved her and of overwhelming regret. "Well, there is a reason why I thought no-one could ever love me."

"She said there was a good reason for the thefts, so I tried to trust that she knew what she was doing," Meg said. "But there cannot be any good reason for this. For your disbelief of her."

"Surely that is for Christine to decide."

"I think she already has decided," Meg said, "If she has any sense."

"I know you are not fond of me, and I cannot blame you - I'm not fond of myself. But might you consider giving her a message for me?" Erik asked.

"I think she would be better off if you left her alone," Meg said. "I don't know exactly what you said to her - she couldn't bear to repeat it, you know - but it crushed her."

This was further salt in his wound. "I have been a fool," he said miserably, barely able to lift his head.

"Yes, you have. She hasn't been herself for days. She tries, but I can tell." Meg shook her head, staring at him in contempt. "How could you say such things? I cannot believe anyone would say such things to Christine, all women! The kindest soul in the world!"

"I can offer no justification. But do you not think an apology might at least lessen her distress?" he ventured at last in a hesitant voice.

"I suppose," Meg said at last, sighing. "But I don't want to-"

"-If she has already made up her mind against me, then what difference can it make?"

"Oh, very well," Meg huffed at last. "It might help her stop moping, at least. Well, what do you want me to tell her?"

"Tell her that I made a terrible mistake. That I was wrong."

Meg snorted. "She knows all that."

"Well, then, tell her I know I was wrong. That I did not mean the things I said, and I did not intend to wound her."

Meg pursed her lips. "Very well, then," she said at last. "Thank you."

Erik had a sudden inspiration. "Oh, and… there is one other thing. Which I will bring to you. Please."

Meg drew back. "Bring to me? Where? I can't be caught meeting with the Phantom. I'm sticking my neck out enough as it is, talking with you now."

"I shall come and find you."

"Oh, excellent," she said sarcastically. "A charming thought, knowing phantoms might jump out at me from behind every corner."

He grinned darkly. "I cannot have you telling the police a place where they can find me. That would enough information to help them catch even me."

She looked at him in surprise. "I told you I wouldn't denounce you."

He shrugged. "I don't expect anything from you."

Meg suddenly looked sad. "You don't trust anyone, do you?" she said almost gently.

He had no patience for this. "Will you assist me in this matter?" he said. "I can assure you I am desperate, for I am not in the habit of asking anyone's help."

"Yes, I'm sure you're not. Oh, very well," Meg sighed at last.

He wanted to dance about the room. "I am grateful," he said, the words strange in his mouth. "I shan't keep you here any longer."

"You didn't keep me here. I remained because I wanted to," Meg said stubbornly. "Like I said, I'm not afraid of you." And she turned and strode away.

Erik stood there for a long moment after she was gone. Too long. It was dangerous to remain so long in one place, especially out in the open where anyone could stumble across him. But his mind was far too preoccupied to think of such matters.

It was clear Meg had no high opinion of him. Even he could see that. But nonetheless he couldn't help feeling encouraged. He had some link to Christine again, however tenuous. For someone like him, who was accustomed to surviving on the few scant morsels of happiness that occasionally fell in his path, it was more than enough for now.

He went to one of the hidden doors in the opera house walls that opened onto the utility passages beyond, slipped through like a shadow, and again became invisible.

And yet, somehow he felt more a part of the world than he had in days.

* * *

 _End of Chapter 14_


	15. Chapter 15

**_Chapter 15_**

* * *

 _I saw your face And I ascended_

 _Out of a common place And into the rare_

 _Now somewhere out in space I hang suspended_

 _Until I'm certain that There's a chance that you care_

 _Won't you answer the fervent prayer Of a stranger in Paradise?_

 _Don't send me in dark despair From all that I hunger for_

 _But open your angels' arms To this stranger in Paradise_

And tell her/him that s/he need be A stranger no more!

\- "Stranger in Paradise", Robert Wright and George Forrest

* * *

 **Music suggestions: 'Letters' by Abel Korzeniowski ('W/E' motion picture soundtrack); 'Cycling Holiday' by Nico Muhly ('The Reader' motion picture soundtrack)**

* * *

It was not until the next week that Erik completed and delivered the rest of his apology to Christine. He didn't worry about whether Meg might read it; she wouldn't fully understand, for his apology was written in music.

A curious choice, perhaps, but it was his true language - far more than words – and happily, one that both he and Christine understood.

On the deepest level, words did not make sense to him, since he had spent so little of his life conversing with anyone. To him, they were hollow and deceitful. One could not lie in music, however. He thought in music, dreamt in it. It was how he felt his feelings. He believed it was the true nature of reality.

A medium as ironclad, as powerful and just as that was the only way he could possibly convey the depth of remorse to Christine.

And so, he'd done what he would never do for anyone else, and written a piece especially for her. He'd spent every hour of the whole week on it, not sleeping, living on nothing but coffee. He had never put so much of himself into a work before. There were things in it he could never confess to any other living soul.

When he handed the score to Meg - she'd somehow contrived to leave rehearsal a few minutes early - she looked at it in surprise. "Is this all?"

All? Erik thought incredulously. 'Is music all'? How can you ask such a thing? "Why… yes."

"What's so important about this?" Meg asked in bewilderment.

"Christine will understand," he insisted. He hoped that was true.

"Is it a code?" Meg looked intrigued.

"Not exactly."

"What do you mean?"

"It is rather difficult to explain."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure I could never understand," she said acidly.

"I simply mean… Christine has an

unusual sort of mind, a mind that works differently than other people's?"

"Well, that's certainly true. Hm." Meg pursed her lips. "Well, if it means you'll leave me in peace, I'll give it to her - I don't see what harm this can do." Music could do more harm than anything else, he wanted to point out. Music could rip the mind apart just as easily as it could offer comfort. It was powerful. It was dangerous. It could make one feel or think anything. But he couldn't say that. Meg would surely think him a madman, if she did not already. And he desperately needed to preserve what little trust he'd managed to gain from her.

Besides, this music wouldn't hurt Christine. He'd been careful to ensure that.

"Thank you," he said simply instead. Meg nodded briskly. "Is there anything else?" she demanded.

"No," he said. He'd suddenly found that all he could think about was going home and resting. Writing that music had nearly broken him.

"Then please go." She punctuated this demand with a jerk of her chin. Erik was only too happy to oblige. He kept his promise to her and disappeared.

Meg cornered Christine backstage a few minutes later.

"This is for you," she said, holding out the music. "Shh."

"Who is this from?" Christine said warily.

"I believe you can guess." Christine jumped. "Him?" She didn't want to say Erik's name.

"Yes, him." Meg couldn't help sneering a little.

"He came to you?"

"Yes, poor me." She rolled her eyes. "He said you wouldn't see him."

"He was probably right," Christine sighed. She glanced down at the document. "What is this?"

"He said it is an apology." Meg shrugged.

"Oh." Christine hesitated. Then, "Well, I am sorry you have been put to so much trouble."

"What do you mean?" Meg demanded.

"I cannot accept it," Christine said.

"What? Why on earth not?"

"It is... dangerous."

"Dangerous? What, do you think it's poisoned?" Meg said dryly.

"Worse. I think it is exactly what it appears to be."

"Christine, you're talking in riddles. It's not like you. It's only music. What harm can that do?"

"More than anything else," Christine said, her eyes wide. She was afraid, as though it were a serpent that might bite her. It was the first time, at least that she knew of, that Erik had composed anything directly to her. She didn't know what this new music held - and she was aware of what Erik's music could do, the power it contained. "I don't want it. Get rid of it."

"This is absurd," Meg said, wincing in annoyance. "Dear, I've gone to a lot of risk to get this to you. Take it."

"I tell you, I don't want it!" Christine cried, and with a violence that surprised them both, she lashed out and struck it to the floor. Several heads turned toward them.

"Don't mind us," Meg called. "Christine is just being eccentric, as usual." Christine rolled her eyes.

"If you don't like it you can stop playing," Meg muttered to her once everyone had gone back to their business. "What are you afraid of?" She eyed her uneasily.

"I'm afraid... I won't want to stop playing," Christine said, puzzling out the riddle in her head. "I'm afraid i'll want to see where this song goes." Whether it was possible for such a challenging harmony to resolve.

"Ah," Meg said, beginning to understand.

"I am afraid I may still in love with him," Christine admitted at last, tears welling in her eyes. "It was his music that first made me fall in love with him."

"Yes," Meg said, as though it were obvious.

"I am afraid this music will only hurt me. Or – that I shall be a fool and go back to him."

"Well, that's exactly what you need to find out, then, isn't it?" Meg said gently. She gathered the sheets of music and gingerly held them out to her.

"I suppose you are right," Christine admitted slowly, bundling them into her arms. "I need to play it. But... where?"

"Your practice-room."

"No... It reminds me of him."

"Oh." Meg, to her credit, accepted this without objection. She lapsed into thought. After a moment, a catlike grin spread over her face. "How about La Carlotta's dressing-room? It has a piano - a ridiculous enormous one. She isn't here- she'll never know."

"The idea has an undeniable appeal - but someone would see me," Christine said. "You're never alone in this opera house."

"No one will see. It's off in a corridor by itself." Meg winked. "Why, only last week Cecile Sorelli used it for a rendez-vous with a young gentleman, and no-one saw them go in or out. If they hadn't bragged about it to the entire corps de ballet, we would never have found out."

At last, Christine gave a faint smile. "You are incorrigible. Oh, very well."

* * *

Christine sat alone in front of La Carlotta's lavish pink-and-gold rococo grand piano, wringing her hands in her lap. In front of her was the score Erik had sent to her. Serenata for Christine, it said simply.

What could be more harmless? What could be more dangerous?

Despite what Meg said, she wasn't sure at all she wanted to play it. A part of her had wanted to throw it away, to burn it, even, but she simply could not. That would be murder. So she had tried hiding it. But her hands, almost by themselves, had taken it out from the cabinet where she'd locked it away and set it back up on the piano, where it seemed to stare at her, demanding to be played.

She'd started out on the other side of the room, looking at it uneasily out of the corner of her eye - it seemed to fill the room - but slowly she had been drawn closer to it. Eventually she had come to rest on the piano bench. She'd been sitting there staring back at it for a quarter of an hour now.

She tried not to read the notes, but the temptation was too great. Her eyes were drawn to the first measure again and again, as though by a magnet. Inwardly she fumed at her father and Erik for teaching her to sight-read so well. The melody began to seep into her brain.

There was nothing for it, then. No way out but through.

Unknotting her hands, she shook them to loosen her wrists and began to play, gingerly at first, as though the keys might burn her.

She did not know what she had been expecting - that she would explode, or the world would end, or Erik would come bursting into the room, his cloak swirling around him and his hand outstretched - but whatever it was, it did not happen, and slowly she lost herself in the music.

The melody gradually became more anguished.

As each labored chord met the air, they transfigured into pure emotion, guilt and grief and anguish exploding around her. It was an apology, undoubtedly - the most sincere apology she had ever heard.

And then, at the end, a question. There was no answer. She was the one who could answer it, not him.

When it was over, she collapsed across the piano keys, overwhelmed. She understood now. Something he had not been able to tell her in any other way.

She didn't know yet what she would say to him. She certainly could never guess what he would say or do. But she knew she had to see him. The music had made it clear to her.

 **End of Chapter 15. Thank you so much for reading!**


	16. Perfect Consonance

**Chapter 16 - Perfect Consonance**

* * *

Erik was too afraid to find Christine himself, so he had broken his promise and appeared to Meg again, despite her protestations (protestations that had ended in several pairs of pointe-shoes being hurled in the direction of his head). Somehow, he had managed to deflect her ire long enough to persuade her to ask Christine if she would meet him one more time.

She'd agreed, but Christine's reply had been ambivalent.

And thus he found himself waiting outside her practice-room one morning, unsure if she would ever come.

After what seemed a thousand years, he saw her coming down the hall, looking like an angel in a striped blue gown embroidered with white flowers.

He thought his heart would stop.

"Erik," she said.

He didn't trust himself to speak. With shaking, clumsy hands, he held out the bouquet of yellow roses he'd brought with him.

Her eyes face hardened.

He mechanically lowered the blossoms, watching her face with trepidation.

"Are you mocking me?" she cried at last.

"No!"

"I ought not to have come." She turned away, avoiding his eyes.

"They stand for repentance!" he said frantically.

She looked back over her shoulder, meeting his eye for the first time.

"We ought to go inside," she said at last.

When they were shut inside the room, he frantically scanned her face, searching for some clue as to what she had decided. It was difficult to say. He felt rather as if the two of them were standing on top of a building and she might push him off at any moment. Whether he lived or died might easily depend on what she had to say in these next few minutes. It was like a duel, except that he had no desire to defeat her.

Curious, that she held his life in her hands and he didn't in the slightest want to get it back from her. She could have crushed his heart, torn apart all his hopes, and he would still have adored her. He gazed at her, trying to memorize her face - he feared very strongly this was the last time he would ever see it. It wasn't necessary, however. He had had it memorized for years.

"Erik," she said awkwardly at last.

He stared at her stupidly. He loved her so desperately, and he was so unworthy of her. "Christine. You... you are well, I hope?"

He cursed himself for the vapidity of the words. It was an insult to the raging, wild, all-consuming passion he felt for her. It was an insult to her.

The remark seemed to annoy her. Despair flooded through him. But she did not turn to go.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," she said at last, one hand toying uneasily with a small white bow on the front of her gown. "And you?"

He swallowed. "That remains to be seen, I confess." There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Why have you called me here?" she asked at last. "I thought you had had enough of my histrionics."

He winced.

"To beg your forgiveness," he said.

She shrugged sadly. "It is already forgiven."

There was a silence that hung heavy in the air.

"But..." she said.

Erik's heart sank. "But...?"

"Am I to understand you didn't mean the things you said?" she asked slowly. "That I am not… disgusting to you?" Her face was full of trepidation.

"Never," he said fervently. "Indeed I fail to see how you could be disgusting to anyone. I never intended to convey… I would have to be a fool. Your affections would be an honor for anyone."

"Then what did you mean by...?"

"My reasons were... Not that there is any justification, of course..."

"No," she said. "But I should like to understand, all the same."

"Ah." He shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Well..."

"Yes?"

"Well, for one, I did not want you to be under the impression that... I thought I couldn't get anything better."

"Erik… I would never have thought such a thing. You could do better, though, you know."

"That is impossible," he said.

She shook her head. "You sell yourself short."

"I do not mean to say merely that I could not do better. I mean to say that no one could." He swallowed. "I fail to see how you could ever be repulsive to anyone."

"Erik..." Tears filled her eyes. "First, you must know I continue to love you just as... ardently as ever."

"Christine!" He could have flown around the room.

"I know I said I would never mention it again," she said, "but... well... I still do and I know I always will. You may always be assured of that."

"Christine! No emperor ever received so fair a gift!"

"Wait," she pleaded. "Don't." The words were wrenched from her. Her whole being fought against it. She wanted to be weak, to yield, but she knew if she did she would regret it. "I do love you-" she said.

"-Christine...!"

"But I acted in haste before," she said. "I see that now. I was frightened after your... illness; I was not thinking clearly."

"What do you mean?"

"Well... what happens now?" she said. Her eyes were sad.

"I would spend the rest of my life living for your happiness," he said. "I should never be so cruel again, never, I swear it. I would be as gentle as a lamb."

"Would you?" she said.

"Yes, Christine, yes! Oh, don't cry," he pleaded, getting up hurriedly when he saw tears gathering in her eyes. "You must know what pain it gives me to see you cry."

"Indeed? It did not give you pain before," she said. "You welcomed it. You rejoiced in it."

Her words hit him like a blow. "Christine, no," he moaned. "Christine..." He could not stop saying her name. It seemed to be the only word he could remember. The whole language began and ended with Christine. All else was meaningless. "How could you think that? Have you only come to torment me?"

"You said the precise things that could have wounded me most," she said. "How could you do it if you truly cared for me?"

There was a long silence while he gathered his thoughts.

"Had I known it was in my power to give you pain, I should never have said those things," he began at last. "Never, Christine."

"How could you think otherwise?" she cried.

"I thought you did not care about my opinion at all," he said.

"But-"

"-When I came to my senses and realized I had wounded you, Christine, I could have killed myself." His voice faltered for a moment. When he had regained control of it, he went on, "Now that I do know you... love me, truly know it and believe it …"

"...But I don't understand! I told you I loved you! I told you that you had my heart. I laid my whole soul open to you. Wasn't that enough for you?"

"I couldn't believe it," he said.

She stared at him. "Do you imagine me capable of lying about such a thing?"

"No, certainly not," he said. "I see that now. I understand now. But at the time, it seemed impossible that I could have won your affection, Christine. Surely you understand that."

"What?" she said. "No, I do not understand it."

"Look at me!" he cried.

"I wish I could, but I daresay you would not let me."

"Yes, you are right," he said, "but you know what you would see. You know the horrible truth."

"Horrible?" she said. "You speak of it as though it is some dark secret-"

"-It is. Nothing I do can ever redeem it. We are separated so widely... you belong to the light, to the world of all that is good, to the angels."

"You also belong to the world of the good."

"No," he said. "You are so high above me."

"No!" She took a step backward. "You are talking nonsense. God help me, I don't know what to think anymore. I need guidance." She turned toward the door.

"Guidance?" he said. "Whose guidance?"

"No one's. That is, no one on this earth. God's. And my father's. If he can hear me. I shall ask him nonetheless."

"Don't go. Don't go. Christine. What if you don't come back?"

"Would I leave you without a word?"

"No... I don't know... I don't know what to think anymore... Christine… Christine…"

"I shall come back," she said. "I am only going to the chapelle. It isn't far."

"I shall come with you, Christine," he said eagerly.

"Have no fear; I shall take care to keep out of sight. I shall be careful that you are not seen with me."

She held up a hand, and he found that somehow the gesture froze him where he stood. "I shall only be a few minutes," she said, calmly but firmly.

He watched helplessly as she slipped out of the room, then he sat down on the piano bench and waited.

An hour went by. Erik couldn't bear to leave the room, however. He seemed glued to the bench. He went through Beethoven's Piano Sonata 14, Chopin's Prelude Op. 28 No. 15, and every other miserable piece he knew, the tinny piano making them sound even more pathetic.

Eventually he was certain Christine wasn't coming back. She would never return. She would marry someone else. And years from now, some poor soul would open the door and find a miserable, dejected skeleton sitting there, still waiting.

She came back alive, however.

When the door opened, he leapt up so fast he almost knocked over the piano bench.

"Christine?"

"Erik..." She closed the door behind her. "I have had time to think..."

You certainly have, he couldn't stop himself from thinking. "Yes? Well?" he said anxiously.

"Well… Do you love me?" she asked simply.

What? He stared at her in bewilderment. Replies came flooding into his brain. Do I love Christine Daae? Is the earth round? Yes, I love you! But he found he couldn't say them. What was happening? What devilry was this?

"You heard the music I wrote you," he said at last, cautiously, uncertainly. "Surely that means more... It is more profound. It conveys ideas far more revolutionary than some mere human word like 'love' ever could."

Suddenly he understood something. He had never been allowed to express his affection in words to anyone. People had let him have music because they preferred it. Because they found it inoffensive. He could slip seditious ideas like love into it and no-one ever guessed. They could all go on with their lives blissfully pretending it meant nothing.

With Christine, that was not possible. The game he had unwittingly been playing - declaring his love for her without her ever guessing it - had not worked. She was too astute. She did not want him to lie. She did not want him to hide.

With her, he had for the first time encountered someone as clever as he was, someone he could not outwit. It was a damnable predicament.

"Why are you testing me thus?"

"Then you do not love me."

"No, that is not true! I would do anything for you, Christine. I would..."

She shook her head helplessly. "Here we come to the problem. I thought you loved me... If so, why do you not say it? If you love me, why would you take such pains to hide it?"

There was a long silence. The earth seemed to spin to a halt. The music in his head slowed and quieted until it was almost silent, just a tense, pulsating bass.

"Christine, I have no right to love you," he said at last.

"Whatever do you mean?" she demanded. "We all have the right to love where we please, I daresay! 'Liberté - egalité' - isn't that what you French are always going on about?"

"But... you don't want my love," he said.

"Don't I? That is for me to say, I think! You don't know what I want!"

"You ought not to… you would be better off without me. I would gladly be your slave for the rest of my life- I never want to be parted from you- I am only a poor dog ready to die for you-"

"-But I don't want a slave!" she cried. "Don't you see that? I want a lover, a friend, a helpmeet."

"I cannot be those things to you!"

"Why not?" she cried.

"My love would..." He hesitated, struggling to put his thoughts into words. "It would sully you. It would degrade you!"

"Because of the blackmail?" she said in confusion. "But there were extenuating circumstances. You know I do not blame you for that- don't torment me, I pray-"

"-No... not that... Because..." He turned away for a moment, trying to compose himself. "Because of my... Because of... What I am!" "What you are?"

"For God's sake, you know what I mean! Must I say it? This!" With a stiff, clumsy hand, he gestured to his mask.

Christine's eyes widened. Suddenly she understood. "Who has told you that? Erik, nothing you are capable of could ever sully or degrade anything in me. A spirit like yours… all you could do would be to honor and elevate the woman you loved! The kind of love you are thinking of is honorable in the utmost." He slowly turned round.

"It is most noble thing a human being is capable of," Christine went on. "If you love someone in that way, and she loves you... it would be wrong to deny it. To suppress a sentiment like that... I fear what it might do to you. It would be a rebellion against the very best part of our nature."

Erik stood transfixed. Could it be that this feeling he had fought for so long was not shameful or foul? That he was not some depraved monster after all? If Christine was right - and she must be; Christine could never be wrong where matters of the heart were concerned - then there was goodness in him yet, and his love for her was, and always had been, a sign of that. It was noble and righteous, the best part of him.

Something shifted inside him.

The whole earth seemed to center around the two of them. He looked Christine in the eye, drawing strength from her soft gaze.

"Then… yes," he said at last. It was quiet, barely a whisper, but it would suffice. He was victorious. "Jag är kär i dig. Je vous aime. I love you. I have for years. You are the light of my life."

He wasn't sure what he had expected to happen - he had no map for any of this; such a story as theirs had never been lived before - but it was not what came next. With a gasp, Christine sat down hard on the piano bench, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a sob. He froze, staring at her, as though she were a precious work of art he had let shatter on the floor.

 _Good God, what have I done to her_?

"Christine... I am sorry..." I should have known. She was noble and generous, yes, but the love of a thing like him was too much for her. He had ruined everything. "Forgive me..."

Christine sprang up. He was sure she was going to run out of the room. But instead she threw one arm around his shoulders and cradled his cheek in her hand. Yes, she was touching his face, his horrible, wretched face, and she was not afraid-

He stared at her in bewilderment. This simply couldn't be.

Was this some after-effect of the absinthe? What was she doing? It was splendid, it was delightful, but…

And then all other thought disappeared from his head, for her lips, soft and sweet, were on his. Her arms went about his neck and she held him with such force she was somehow lifted off the ground.

He thought his heart might stop.

No, he could not have imagined this. He didn't know enough to. He did not know what it was to be kissed, til now, and it was better than he could have imagined. This was assuredly real.

At last he understood. There was, perhaps no other way she could have explained this to him. This gesture had no ambiguity; it could not be misinterpreted, even by him. Nor could it have somehow been a mistake on her part.

Life seemed to surge through him. The bitterness drained out of him. It felt like seeing spring for the first time.

She pulled away and looked at him eagerly, expectantly.

Her face flickered in and out of focus as he looked back. For a moment he almost feared she would disappear, as though something so pure, so innocent, coming into contact with a being as foul and contaminated as him would destroy her. But no. She continued to stand before him as bright and glowing as ever. She had kissed him and she did not die.

"Well?" she said. "Please… say something. Erik?"

He couldn't resist her any longer. It was futile. His soul was lashed to hers.

Shaking, he kissed her forehead, both her cheeks, her chin, and then buried his face in her shoulder, clutching her to him. This was all too much. His knees half gave way and he fell back against the piano, still holding her. They sank to the floor as one.

"How can I make you understand?" Christine said after a moment.

His voice was almost a whisper. "I believe I begin to."

End of Chapter 16.


	17. Nocturne

**_Chapter 17 - Nocturne_**

* * *

 _I touched your soul to mine,_

 _I gave you music..._

 _The tiny spark you gave_

 _Also set my heart aflame..._

 _Our voices blend forever_

 _Ascending high above_

 _One day I'll fly as high with you,_

 _And in Heaven's arms we'll be, e_ _ternally..._

-Ken Hill, ' _The Phantom of the Opera_ '

* * *

 **Music suggestions: ' _The Swan_ ' by Camille Saint-Saëns; 'Always Summer' by Terry Davies the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra ('Brideshead Revisited').**

What did one do when the whole world was just as it ought to be? He wanted to kiss her again, to whisper to her, to leap up and sing to her, to catch her up in his arms and swing her into the air, but none of that was good enough. These moments were too precious to spend on anything. They were like diamonds falling through his fingers.

For he was holding her - could it be? Holding Christine close, as close as he dared, in his trembling arms. The past was gone; the future unimportant. All that mattered was that he was holding her now.

"Oh, mad Christine," he murmured into her hair. "What have you done? What beautiful madness." He hardly knew what he was saying, whether it made sense or not. He found he didn't care.

"If this is madness," she said, "Then I welcome it."

"Christine... you have my word, you shall not regret this."

"I know I shall not." He could not see her face, but even he could not fail to recognize the happiness in her voice.

He held her closer, clinging to her as though their lives depended on it. "Whatever you wish for, I shall see that you have it. You shall be the happiest of women."

"I already am the happiest of women," she said through tears, "For I have just what I wish for."

There was a pause.

"But what does all this mean?" she murmured at length. "What happens now? I don't know what any of this means."

He pulled away and regarded her uneasily. He had never thought of that, not in a practical sense. Indeed, even in his wildest imaginings he had never been able to get beyond this point. Now that he did, a thousand obstacles presented themselves.

"By that," he asked, "do you mean to ask what is going to happen at this moment, or what will become of us in the future?"

"Both," Christine said. "You cannot be the Phantom anymore." She looked steadily into his eyes. To her surprise, she saw a glimmer of fear there at her reply.

Suddenly she understood.

"But at this moment in particular," she added gently.

"Ah." Erik relaxed.

"I should like for us to go someplace together," she said. "We cannot just sit here in the music-room at a time like this, not when we have made the most momentous discovery in the world. We must celebrate it."

"I agree entirely," he said blissfully, though. Go someplace? What did she mean by that? To a restaurant, the theatre? Surely she knew that was impossible. Masks weren't exactly de rigeur in the finest circles.

"What is your favorite place in Paris?" she asked. "That is where I should like to go."

At once he fell in love with her all over again. "When?" His mind flooded with all the places he would like to take her - suddenly imagining all his favorite spots in the city in a new and beloved light.

"Oh, at once!" she said giddily, laughing.

"At once? But… you have rehearsal."

"Ah, but you see, unfortunately I have just learned I am going to miss rehearsal," she said, smiling and drawing closer to him. "It is unavoidable."

"I should like that more than anything." He smiled. "But if you were simply to leave..."

She smiled. "-I shall be ill. They cannot blame me for that. In fact, I am certain I feel a chill coming on even now. I shall send word via Meg."

"I am afraid as your instructor, I cannot allow this kind of thing." He smiled.

"You are not acting in the capacity of my instructor right now," she said cheekily, glancing down at his arm encircling her waist. "You are speaking in the capacity of my… What is it we are to one another? I don't like the word 'amant'."

 _Lover?_ He jumped.

"There is something dirty about it," she said.

"One of the interesting vagaries of the French language," he said. "Even the most innocent words sound provocative."

She grinned. "Yes. But there must be something," she said. "Why, yes. You are… _mon bien-aimé_." My beloved. She smiled at the sound of it.

"I cannot imagine anything better." Warmth flooded through him at the word. Bewitched, he lifted a hand and stroked her curls, carefully, with just the tips of his fingers, as though she were a painting that was not quite dry, or a sculpture he didn't want to damage. The slightest wrong move might wake him, dissolve this whole beautiful dream.

Suddenly there came a knock at the door, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Christine!" cried a familiar cheerful voice. "Are you in there, ducky?"

Christine jumped.

Erik's shoulders slumped.

"Yes," Christine called back out of habit, then looked annoyed with herself for giving them away. She glanced toward him apologetically. "I suppose I would not make a very good Phantom," she said quietly.

But it was impossible for him to be annoyed. Perhaps in some other universe, he might have been. But here, today, he was at peace with everyone and everything. The city could have been blown to smithereens around them and he would scarcely have noticed. "I do not recommend it as a line of work," he said. "In fact, I have been thinking of getting out of the business myself."

Christine's face lit up with happiness and relief. "Oh, how glad that makes me."

"Have you forgotten what time it is?" Meg called. "At this opera house, we have a curious practice of rehearsing our material before we present it to the public!"

"Is it that time already?" Christine called.

"Yes. Are you all right?"

"Never better," Christine called. She smiled at Erik.

"She doesn't know I am here," Erik recalled.

"No. I told her I was not coming, but I changed my mind."

He shuddered at the thought of how close they'd come to none of this ever happening. "Thank God you did. I have never been more glad of anything."

"Nor I. Shall I tell her what has happened?" Christine whispered. "She will be delighted that I am so happy."

Erik did not think Meg would be delighted by this development at all.

Still... Christine was happy! He had made her happy! There was no greater possible joy than this.

"I wish we could announce it to the whole city," he said. And indeed, that was true. "But I fear it would not be safe to tell anyone, except perhaps Madame Giry."

Christine's face fell. "Oh," she said. "I see."

"Simply, ah... tell her that we have resumed our lessons."

Christine smiled wryly. "That is one way to put it."

"Christine?" came Meg's voice.

Christine jumped. "Just go on without me, dear! I shall be few minutes, and you are on before me!" she called, and she heard Meg's footsteps fade away down the hall.

Erik gently clasped Christine's hand, savoring its warmth. "I am sorry, Christine. Having me as anything more than an acquaintance tends to be be rather hazardous, I find." He sighed. "I am being kinder toward Meg than toward you."

"What?"

"I am being so damnably selfish letting you associate with me. It is like playing with fire. I probably deserve the guillotine for it."

"No," Christine said frantically, drawing closer to him. "I too have chosen to continue our... association. After all, playing with fire can be rather exciting, you know." She smiled.

He gazed at her, enraptured. _How perfect she is._

"But I see what you mean about Meg," she went on. "And I suppose keeping this a secret would be better for my reputation as well, at least for the time being. Though I do not know how I shall bear to keep it to myself for any length of time."

He traced a finger along her cheek. "Oh, but it is beautiful to have a secret like this. I shall treasure it."

"Yes," Christine murmured, smiling and brushing her lips against his finger. There was not a hint of coquetry in the gesture, only pure adoration, and he loved her for it. "In fact... let us not tell anyone for the present."

"No-one?" he said. "Madame Giry may wish to know."

"No... no... Let us wait and, ah... surprise her."

"Very well," he said uncertainly.

"I fear I must go," she said, rising. "When shall I see you?"

"As soon as possible," he pleaded, and then, "After rehearsal, that is to say."

"Where shall I find you, then?"

"I shall be watching your rehearsal. As always," he couldn't resist adding.

Christine's expression was both moved and anxious. "I thought I saw you in Box Five, when I was singing _Me Voilà Seule Dans La Nuit_."

He smiled. "You were exquisite."

She was torn between gratitude and alarm. "Oh... thank you... But you mustn't be there!"

"It is my only chance to see you onstage," he protested.

"It is too foolhardy," she said, almost pleading.

He looked disappointed.

"I shall gladly sing whatever you wish for you when we are alone," she said. "But not this way."

"Very well, then," he relented at last. "I do not think I could deny you anything, I confess."

"I am very glad to hear it," she said teasingly.

He smiled. "Where shall I await you, then, milady?"

"Your home, perhaps?"

"Yes, I suppose that would be possible, though we cannot make a habit of it." Erik reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew forth an immense key. "You recall the tunnel behind the gate on Rue Scribe?"

"Yes," she said.

He held out the key and gently folded her hands around it. "Very well. If you come a little ways into the passage and call for me, I shall hear you."

Christine slipped the key into her reticule with eager, fumbling fingers. "Then I shall see you tonight," she said, beaming.

His expression grew more solemn. "Christine..."

"What is it?" she asked, the mirth fading from her eyes.

"Do take care when you come, Christine," he said. "I know that one day all that madness with the Phantom will catch up to me."

"Erik-"

"-It could be any day. And I could not bear it for you to be linked back to me when that happens. The world would be merciless to you. You must swear to me you shall not ever allow that to happen."

"You have my word."

"Thank you." He kissed her forehead. "Now you must go."

"I suppose." She rose and turned away. For several long moments, she could not look at him; she was too shy, too overwhelmed. Then, however, she turned to take one last glance at him, and then she could not look away. At last she darted out of the room, leaving him breathless with the knowledge of all that had just happened.

Two thoughts whirled through his brain: Christine was happy, somehow, because of him… and he would never, never again have to be alone. It was over. His terrible loneliness and isolation, his spell in Purgatory, was over.

All his life he had been beaten, scorned, despised and rejected. He had endured every kind of torture and humiliation.

But against that: Christine loved him. That outdid all the rest. What did any misfortune amount to in comparison to that? It swept them all away effortlessly. The balance was cleared.

The world had been wrong about him. This proved it. There was goodness in him, even beauty, somehow. There must be. Otherwise, how could such a perfect creature have chosen him?

How different everything would be with such love, such gentleness and goodness at his side. From now on it was going to be a new life.

* * *

Christine practically floated down the hall to rehearsal. There, sang with more joy and passion and fire than she ever had before.

But though normally she savored every moment - even when La Carlotta was screeching at her, at least she was onstage - today it seemed to drag on for days.

As it waned on, her mind filled with uncertainties. What if Erik changed his mind? What if she was late and he thought she had changed hers? Had she imagined this morning's events?

Meg laughed over how distracted she seemed, and Madame Giry watched her with concern.

Normally, she was the last person to leave. But today, she was inching toward the wings before it was over. She escaped from the milling crowd with the same sense of relief she would have felt at bursting out of a hot room. With every footstep, her eagerness quickened. Once outside, she almost forgot to look to make sure no one was watching before she hurried through the gate on Rue Scribe.

"Erik?" she called, once she had shut it behind her and gone a safe distance down the tunnel. She was too impatient to wait for more than a few moments for a reply, however. "Mon cœur?"

"Christine!" True to his words, he materialized out of the darkness in a matter of moments. He must have run to where she was, she thought happily, or else he had been waiting for her in the tunnel.

They looked at each other in silence for a moment, suddenly shy.

At last, she dropped the little lantern she'd brought and flung herself unceremoniously into his arms, kissing him deeply.

They stood like that for she knew not how long, neither wanting to move.

"I suppose it would not do for me to keep you here," he said at last, noticing how cold her hands had grown. He lifted one to his lips and kissed it til it was warm.

She smiled. "No, I suppose not."

"Well, then. Where shall we go this evening, Christine? Paris is yours." He gestured expansively above them.

"Go?" she said. "I thought we were going to your lair - I mean, your home. I should like for us to be alone."

"I am sorry to disappoint you, but your presence in my _lair_ …" His mouth twisted ironically to one side... "I rather like the sound of that, you know; I loved to imagine I was a dragon when I was younger…"

"Did you indeed? I did as well."

"Indeed. And you? What else?"

"A sorceress, a viking, a pirate... sometimes a great diva."

He smiled. "That is not so very far from the truth."

She kissed him.

"Forgive me; what were you saying?" she asked after a few moments, pulling away.

"Ah. Yes." He ran a hand through his hair and paused to recollect. "Your presence in my lair would I think be rather difficult to explain away if I were caught."

"Explain away?" Christine said uncomprehendingly.

"In any other place, you could say I found you and grabbed you. Or, at your home, you could say I broke in."

Christine stared at him in shock. "Mon cœur, I could never do such a thing! You would be arrested!"

"It is better than you being condemned for choosing to associate with me," he said sadly. You would be locked up in a madhouse if you told anyone that you fancied yourself in love with a thing like me."

"No! Erik-"

"-Besides, I have always escaped when I have been arrested in the past." He looked down at himself. "As you see," he added wryly.

"But what if you did not escape this time?" she cried. "What then? This is absurd! You have every right to be seen with me!"

"But you haven't any right to be seen with me. At least not in the eyes of-"

"-Yes, I have!" she protested. "My love for you is honorable! I will not be ashamed of it! I want to be able to tell people of it! Why should I not?"

"You know why, if you would admit it to yourself." He paused. "If you will not promise me this, I cannot let you go down there."

Her face hardened. "I cannot promise any such thing, and I never shall."

He stared at her in despair. "Oh, Christine, I don't want contention between us."

She softened. "Mon amour... Neither do I."

"Yes. But things will be... difficult."

"I am not afraid." She smiled bravely up at him, trying to convince them both that she believed it.

He felt a flood of unspeakable gratitude. "Then... perhaps we might delay this... discussion... until another time? I should like to enjoy being with you without having this evening... tainted by worry."

"Yes," she agreed. "Yes, you are quite right. We can certainly find somewhere else to go. After all, we live in the most beautiful city in the world."

"I am grateful, Christine." He paused. "What do you say to Parc Monceau?" he suggested after a moment. "It isn't far."

She gladly accepted the new topic of conversation. "Very well. Yes, you are right. And it is so very beautiful. But... oh, dear, it will be closing soon, will it not?"

He smiled. "Precisely."

Her face lit up with understanding. "Oh! Why... will we be trespassing, then?"

He nodded, a little nervous that she might object.

Instead, however, a conniving smile spread over her sweet face. "How very thrilling."

Great God, how he adored her.

Smiling, he led her carefully out of the tunnel. Somehow he managed to get them both out onto Rue Scribe without anyone noticing. He turned up his collar to hide his mask.

"Would you care to take a promenade, my dear Mademoiselle?" he asked, turning to Christine with a smile.

"Are we going to walk?" Christine asked, glancing down in dismay at her dainty, high-heeled boots - stylish, but not in the least practical for lengthy promenades through the city.

Erik shrugged. "My usual practice is to jump onto the back of a hansom cab. I should not like to put you through such an endeavor."

"But why is that necessary?" she asked.

"There isn't anywhere at the Parc to leave my brougham. And I doubt the cabs or the omnibus would take me."

"Oh. I see. I am sorry, mon cœur." She paused. Suddenly a gleam came into her eyes. "But you know, a cab would take _me_."

"But I should not like for you to have to wait at the Parc alone at night." He hid his disappointment that she would leave him to fend for himself.

"Why, Erik!" She looked at him sadly. "You don't understand. What must you think of me? I should never think of leaving you behind."

"Oh?" he said hopefully.

"My intention was to hail a cab by myself and then have you come along, as though you'd stayed behind for a moment to lock up our house, or something of the kind - and get in after I paid the cabbie and it was too late for him to do anything about it."

"Ah. I see," Erik said, relieved, sorry, impressed, grateful, and amused all at once. "Forgive me, Christine. Yes, you are quite right." He stifled a chuckle. "I can just see it. 'Excuse me, Monsieur; I am but a poor, innocent lovely young lady desperate for a cab home... Thank you, Monsieur; how kind... Oh, and you won't mind if my friend in a long black cloak and _a mask_ comes along, will you? Good, I didn't think so.'"

Christine laughed in spite of herself. "Very well, laugh if you must. But won't you let me give it a try? Think of the trouble it would save if we are successful."

"Yes, you are right. Very well." He stepped behind a news kiosk papered with colorful posters and waited.

A minute or so went by. His eyes wandered uninterestedly over suspicious-looking advertisements for toothache drops and hair restoratives - he may be hideous, but at least he had no need for those, Dieu merci - as he waited. Eventually, he heard Christine's clear, musical voice calling out for a taxi, and an collection of hooves and rickety wheels clattering to a halt.

"Good evening, Monsieur. How much to Parc Monceau?" he heard Christine say, and then, "Very well. We can depart in a moment; I just need to wait for my... my husband."

 _Husband?_ Erik jumped.

"Right," came a tired, uninterested voice. "Tell 'im to hurry up, would ya?"

"François, dear, are you coming?" Christine called.

After a moment's confusion, Erik realized he was 'François'. He sheepishly came out of his hiding-place, certain the cabbie would drive away the moment he saw him.

However, the fellow barely looked up. Erik, his head bowed, had ducked into the cab before he could catch a glimpse of his mask. In another moment, Christine had shut the door and they were rolling smoothly along the boulevard.

"Why, that was simple," Erik said happily. He turned to look at Christine, not attempting to keep the pride out of his expression. "How clever you are."

She smiled.

He clasped his hands on his knees and looked around happily. "I have never ridden in a hansom before."

"They are expensive, but I rather like the privacy they afford," Christine said.

He wasn't quite sure quite how it happened, but a moment later she was kissing him again.

He leapt backwards, practically shoving her away in his surprise.

"Erik?" Christine said. A look of shock had leapt onto her features.

"Christine..." He stammered, barely knowing what he was saying, "You should not..."

"What is it?" Her brown eyes were wide with distress and confusion.

"That is, it isn't right..."

"I don't understand," she said. She looked on the verge of tears. "What have I done wrong?"

"You have done nothing wrong, Christine," he said, hating himself for distressing her. "You have never done anything wrong. I know you mean to... to please me... but what I don't wish for is to..." He stopped. "Oh, God, I don't know how to put it. Do you see?" he said - it was almost a plea.

"No," she said. "I still don't understand. You said you loved me."

"Of course I love you. More than life itself. I worship you."

"Are you mocking me?" she said incredulously.

"What? Certainly not. I could never lie about such a thing." He looked at her in bewilderment. "Why? Don't people say things like that?"

"Not in my experience," she said sadly.

"But if... if one loved another person, wouldn't they want to say it all the time? 'To love another person is to see the face of God'."

Christine tenderly clasped his hand. "I wish the rest of the world thought the same way you do." She paused. "Well, if you think so highly of me... don't you want me to kiss you?"

"I..."

"...I should be embarrassed if you did not," she said at last in a quiet voice. She looked away, seeming to shrink into herself.

He blanched with horror. "Oh, Christine, you must not think... You are utterly exquisite. I think you perfect in every way."

"Am I indeed?" she said bitterly. "You didn't seem to think so a moment ago."

"I assure you, I am not so blind that I am not capable of seeing how lovely you are," he said. "If things were different, if... if I were not so... if I were good-looking, then of course I should want to..." He felt ashamed even at this admission. What right had he to say such a thing to a creature as pure and lovely, as high above him, as her? "But... I know you don't want..."

She turned back to him. "Oh, but mon cœur, I do! Is that all?"

 _All?_ The word incensed him. How could she make light of this, of all he had endured? "Yes; isn't that reason enough?" he said bitterly. "Surely something as repulsive as this-" he gestured briefly to his mask. "Is enough to repel anyone. You are under no obligation to come up with any other explanation. I shan't put you to the trouble. I shan't take offense. But in return, don't insult us both by acting as though you want to kiss me. It is absurd."

"But I do! And I see nothing repulsive in you."

"Good God," he spat out. "This grows absurd. Christine, if you try to say I am handsome, then by God, I shall get out of this cab and go back to that miserable cave under the Opéra this moment."

She thought for a long moment. "No. I have no wish to try to deceive you; it would be useless. Your face is not handsome; there, are you satisfied? But neither are you repulsive to me. You possess qualities that far outweigh merely possessing a fine set of features. You said you never want me to think you only chose me because you thought you could not get anything better. I want the same for you. I hope you will begin to understand that I chose you because I greatly admire you; I am..." She stopped, blushing. "I am... _drawn_ to you, Erik. There is something between us... I think you have felt it too."

He stared at her in astonishment. Slowly he was beginning to understand. If anyone could learn to see him, to find the man behind the monster, this loathsome gargoyle - the man who yearned for Heaven and dared to dreamed of beauty - it was her.

"Yes," he admitted slowly. "Yes, I have."

"Well, then." Her voice had dwindled to a soft whisper. She kissed him again, tentatively, and this time he did not resist. He did not want to.

 **NOTICE: NOTHING BUT FLUFF FROM HERE TO THE END OF THE CHAPTER. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.**

It was not like the previous two times. Something was different. He felt free to worship her, his idol, not just in a distant way, but to _love_ her in this immediate - this physical - sense. For a few brief, blissful minutes, it seemed as though his ugliness melted away and he were just a man, and it was perfectly natural and right for him to want to kiss her, to touch her, to hold her. He had feared he wouldn't know what he was doing - he had read about this kind of thing, but it wasn't the same - but his mouth, his hands, seemed to know what to do - and if Christine's quick breathing and the soft, velvety rhythm of her pulse were any indication, he must not be entirely inept.

The journey passed with remarkable swiftness. It seemed like mere moments before they arrived at Parc Monceau - although he had to admit to himself that he would scarcely have noticed the time passing even if they had driven across the whole city. With his hands buried in Christine's curls, his lips wandering deliciously over hers, and her soft, cool fingers slipped under his collar, it took him several moments to realize that the carriage had come to a halt.

"Parc Monceau!" the cabbie shouted, and from his tone Erik had a feeling he had said it at least once before without them hearing.

He and Christine gazed at each other for a moment in silence. Her expression was the same as his - the same glorious, bewildering mixture of excitement, frisson, nervousness, delighted surprise at her own boldness, and simple, pure bliss.

"Just a moment, Monsieur!" she called at last, disentangling herself from Erik and making a vain attempt to pat her hair back into place.

"Don't," Erik murmured to her. "You look enchanting."

Was he responsible for the new glow in her cheeks, that sparkle in her eyes?

"I'll charge you for sitting here!" the cabbie called.

With a sigh, Christine tumbled out onto the pavement. Erik alighted after her, darting out of the lamplight and into the safety of the shadows around the park.

When the cab had driven away, he emerged warily, taking Christine by the hand.

He scanned the signs attached to the park gate. "Well, the park is already closed for the night, I am afraid. It would have been easier to go in while it was still open and simply hide ourselves somewhere."

"What now, then?"

He stepped up to the high, elaborately sculpted iron fence that surrounded the park. "Fortunately," he said, gesturing to the lavish iron curlicues that decorated the main gate, "They included footholds."

She grinned.

Suddenly, however, her eyes fell on a sign posted outside the entrance. "Semi-private?" she read. "What can that mean?"

"For the unwashed masses, it is closed after dark. But the millionaires who own the adjoining houses have access to the park twenty-four hours of the day and may remain as late as they wish." Erik shook his head. "They must be the luckiest devils in Paris." _Well, they may think they are. But I am the one who gained the heart of the most perfect woman who has ever breathed. They may think themselves very clever, but they will never have anything to compare with her._

"Oh... But then... they may still be there," Christine said fretfully.

"In theory, yes, it is possible," he acknowledged, "But I have come here dozens of times at night without seeing a soul."

She did not look reassured.

"People who have always had something extraordinary at their doorstep never take advantage of it," he pointed out. _Just as_ _people who have always had love take it utterly for granted._

"Hm, I think that is true," Christine mused. "I think I have seen more of Paris than Meg has. She doesn't understand how fortunate she is to live here."

"Precisely," Erik said. "In addition, if we were seen by a policeman, he would probably assume we were simply some of the residents."

"Very well," Christine said at last. She turned toward the fence. "Oh dear," she said as she took in its height. "Er... May I beg your assistance, my good sir?"

"I should be honored, my dear Mademoiselle." He made his hands into a platform and, when she had stepped delicately onto them with one foot, lifted her carefully off the ground. She balanced easily, a credit to Madame Giry's ballet instruction. Once she had a foothold in the ironwork, she climbed nimbly up the fence, surefooted and unafraid.

As he watched her climbed higher, however, he began to grow uneasy, and put an anxious hand on her back to steady her.

"Take care," he blurted out.

She simply laughed.

His heart was in his throat as she climbed out of his reach. At least she reached the top and perched there like a nightingale.

"If you will wait there," he called up to her, "I shall climb over first and catch you when you jump down."

She grinned down at him. "Will you? Oh, how kind of you."

Taking it at a run, he vaulted nimbly up the fence, cleared the top, and let himself drop down, landing lightly on the other side. Once he'd steadied himself, he looked up for Christine. But she was gone.

He whirled around. She was standing there on the walkway, smiling innocently at him and dusting her hands off on her skirt, as though clearing a three-and-a-half-metre fence with pointed iron finials were the simplest thing in the world.

"I... don't understand," he said.

"Oh, I have my ways, Monsieur."

He laughed.

* * *

True to his prediction, they had the park to themselves, save for the occasional wandering moth. It was an exquisite night, the breeze soft and pleasantly cool. The air seemed to shimmer with blissful longing.

"I like it even better here at night," Christine said. "How peaceful everything is."

"Yes. I am glad you love the night," he said. "I cannot understand those persons who do not."

"I feel just the same." She smiled.

Their eyes met and he felt another connection spin itself between them like a thread. Every moment the bond he felt to her deepening. A day ago he had thought he could not possibly love her more. Now he realized how stupid he'd been to think that. He could never, never be parted from her, couldn't even think of it. Did she have any idea what she had done to him?

"I am glad you brought me here," she said, turning to face him and walking backwards for a few paces. "It is remarkable having a place like this one all to one's self. I feel like a queen." She took his arm.

"I am glad, for that is precisely how you ought to feel," he said. "You are my queen."

She smiled. "And what kingdom shall we rule over?"

"A kingdom of music." He sighed. "I can offer you little else, I fear."

She took his hand. "There could be no more perfect gift."

Together they meandered happily through the gardens' blue shadows, drinking in the night air. Eventually they came upon the park's famous colonnade, a relic from the follies of an extravagant duke a hundred years before. Fluted Grecian columns, their capitols crowned with delicate carvings of acanthus leaves, ringed a small, jewel-like pond. In the moonlight, the whole scene seemed to be covered in silver, while the surface of the water shone like a pewter mirror.

They both stopped short and gasped at the beauty of it. Neither of them wanted to break the silence - as though it were all an enchantment that would be shattered if they spoke.

It seemed perfectly natural, though, for Christine to put her slender arms about his neck, and for them to kiss, and kiss again, in the warm breeze, with the scent of roses washing over them.

When at length she pulled away, Erik went to one of the rosebeds that surrounded the pond. He selected the choicest blossom and cut it with his penknife, carefully snapping its thorns off with his thumb before holding it out to her.

"What if the Beast comes to take revenge?" she said, smiling as he tucked it into her hair.

He grinned. "I am the Beast."

"I always suspected you of being a prince," she said.

Satisfied with the placement of the blossom, he stepped back to admire the effect. In the moonlight, with the pink of its petals bringing out the happy glow in her cheeks, she was so lovely she almost seemed lit from within.

This was all he had ever wanted. Simple moments like this with her. His happiness was complete.

"You are radiant, Christine," he said, his voice shaking with emotion.

"Erik..." She blinked back happy tears. "I cannot believe it when anyone else says that sort of thing, but when you say it... I begin to."

"That is as it should be. I am glad." Was it possible he had made her feel that way? A loathsome gargoyle like him had made an angel like Christine Daae feel radiant and lovely?

"I know you do not say it just to flatter me," she said, "Or to be kind."

He smiled. "I never say anything just to be kind. Even to you."

"Oh, yes, I certainly am aware of that."

He laughed. "You know me rather too well, I fear."

"That would be impossible." She smiled, and they lapsed into a companionable, happy silence. There was so much to talk of that they did not talk of anything.

"I want you to have something to call me," she said at length.

"Something to call you?"

"A name that is just for us. Some... term of endearment, if you will."

"I see," he said. "I should be glad to oblige." He thought. "Tinette doesn't suit you."

She winced. "No. Meg has all the girls calling me that and I can't stand it. I wish people still called me Stina sometimes. That was my nickname in Sweden, you know."

"Yes. But I shall always think of you as Christine. Well, I suppose I could call you that on special occasions."

She smiled. "Very well. But what for every day, then? Some pet name."

"What would you like me to call you?" he asked.

"You must choose. I cannot order you to call me 'my jewel' or 'my goddess'."

In Erik's mind, this rose up as an insurmountable problem. He had dreamed of having some name to call her, but all the ones he had imagined choosing seemed too bold now. He liked 'mon cœur', but while it sounded lovely when Christine said it - she could have read an instruction manual and made it sound like the poetry of the angels - he had a feeling it would have seemed rather grim coming from his mouth. No, he would let her keep that one. He loved hearing her say it to him.

But what for him?

He'd heard some of the young men at the opera house call their sweethearts 'my cream puff' and other similarly nauseating terms. But he would rather throw himself into the Seine than demean the passion he felt for Christine with such insipidity - and he was sure she felt the same way.

At last, however, an answer came to him.

" _Mon rêve,_ " he said. It was not perfect, it was not quite right, but it would do for now. "Because this is all so like a dream. It is too perfect to be anything else."

"How beautiful," Christine murmured. After a pause, she added, "But it is not a dream."

He smiled sadly at her, realizing that a part of him still feared she was going to melt away into thin air. Perhaps that was why he had chosen as he had. "Perhaps someday I shall even be able to believe it."

 _End of Chapter 17._

* * *

 _Thank you so much MrY, Asprankle1, Avarice574, TangoSalsa, and MissGalindaa, for your lovely reviews! MrY, in answer to your question, in my headcanon, Erik is very young when he's in the circus thing. Like 8 at the oldest. In 1870 I'd say he's in his early- to mid-thirties, while Madame Giry is probably in her fifties. Hope this helps! :)_


	18. To Flee the World

**Chapter 18 - To Flee the World**

 **Soundtrack suggestions: 'Darcy's Letter' by Jean-Yves Thibaudet ('Pride and Prejudice' 2005 soundtrack)**

* * *

Erik and Christine were both as happy as everyone who loved them believed they deserved to be - though no-one knew it but them.

With Christine, Erik was consoled for every past misfortune. Already he was changed, his starved heart opened like a rose. He had feared, at first, that he would not know how to love. But it was as though all the affection he had been unable to share had simply been stored up, and now it all came surging forth. He learned quickly. He was always thinking of new things to do for Christine, little favors he could do for her, new ideas to surprise and delight her. It was the most thrilling game of his life.

For Christine, too, it was the same. After being lonely for so long, having someone who adored her so deeply, who never tired of her presence, never failed to amaze her. He was everything she had hoped he would be and more. With every day she was more glad she had chosen him.

And yet, running through every moment they shared was an undercurrent of fear.

They did not talk of the future. Both knew they must, but Erik could not bring himself to. He knew how untenable this was, and acknowledging that might spoil everything, destroy this one shard of fragile happiness they had managed to pull from the wreckage of his life. It was easier to pretend they existed in some world of their own, floating high above all else.

It could not go on like this, however. They were being careless. Christine did not take care enough to hide her smiles. People whispered about her, wondered why for the first time she laughed aloud, danced when she didn't have to, hummed to herself when she thought no-one was listening. And he - he was worse. He would appear to her full in the middle of the opera house during the day when anyone could be watching. More then once he had almost been caught. People would spot the corner of his cloak, disappearing around a corner just in time, or catch a snatch of his voice and ask Christine who she had been talking to, leaving her to scramble for an explanation.

He hated himself for it. He couldn't bear not to see her - at every moment that he wasn't by her side, the urge to go to her was overwhelming. He couldn't think of anything but her. But he was being unfair, he knew it. He was used to danger following him at every moment, but Christine was not. This all might easily come crashing down on her head. It haunted him to think that she might have to pay the price for the crime of his loving her.

They were playing with fire. And if they didn't start to take more care, they were going to get themselves burnt. Their day of reckoning had to come.

* * *

One afternoon, when he was at home trying to work on his opera (though truth to be told, he was hopelessly distracted by thoughts of Christine), there came the sound of footsteps running through the tunnels.

Instantly he was on the alert.

It was Christine. When he her, he was equally pleased and alarmed. "Why, Christine! You-"

"-Erik!" she cried at the same time, skidding to a halt before him and doubling over to catch her breath. "Oh, thank God you are safe!"

"Christine..." he said in confusion, touching her anxiously on the arm. "It is always a delight to see you, but you cannot be here. I hope you will not come down here again. I am going to have to remove the thread, and I could not bear it if you were to be lost down here."

"I had to come," she protested, her voice quivering. To his surprise, she threw her arms around him, not affectionately, but desperately, as though he were in danger of drowning.

"Why… you are in distress!" he cried, pulling away and looking at her in alarm. "What has happened? Oh, do not cry! Come, sit. Here is the most comfortable chair. I shall bring you a glass of water. Or wine, perhaps?"

"No... no."

"Some tea? Coffee?"

Christine almost smiled, touched by his attentiveness. "No, thank you; there is no time- there is something I must tell you at once."

"What has happened?" he asked.

"The managers have reported the missing money to the police," she managed at last.

Erik's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Just this morning. I feared you might be down here and not have caught wind of it yet."

"They cannot have," he protested. "Those fools are are obsessed with society's opinion - they would not risk the scandal."

"They have now," she said. "Something has changed, perhaps."

He turned away. For a few long moments, she could not see his eyes, could not tell what he was thinking. He was horribly still, staring at the ground so intently she half-thought he might wear a hole in it.

"Erik?"

"It's that damned Vicomte!" he cried suddenly, whirling around.

Christine winced. She had not thought Erik would still be so jealous and suspicious of Raoul after all this time.

"Raou- er, de Chagny?" she said.

"Who else? His fingerprints are all over this. These ridiculous rich young puppies - they tire of spending Papa's money and then go inserting themselves into other people's lives and telling them how their own affairs ought to be run."

This, Christine thought, was uncomfortably close to the truth - if not for Raoul himself, then for many of his friends. "He may perhaps have had a hand in it, I suppose," she realized. The first threads of dislike for Raoul began to worm their way into her heart. It seemed she was not destined to be able to respect them both. Their ideals were too different. But she knew who her choice would be. There was no question about it. Remembering Erik, remembering how precious he was to her, she forced herself back to the present. "But there is something else."

"Hmh?"

"The managers have… Well, I am not supposed to talk of this; it is not something people speak of directly…" She trailed off.

"I am the Phantom, not a member of the board." Erik grinned. "You may speak freely."

Again Christine smiled faintly. "You were the Phantom. I hope you are becoming Erik again."

"I hope that as well. If I shall be saved, it is because your love redeems me."

"Mon cœur..." Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. She squeezed his hand so hard his fingertips went cold for a moment. "You are redeemed. You are saved."

"It is a pleasure to owe such a debt to you, mon rêve."

"There is no debt," she said gently.

For a moment, the two of them were silent. Her gaze held him.

The innocence and openness in her brown eyes began to make him uncomfortable.

"You were saying?" he asked.

"Well," she went on at last, "It seems… er… that funds at the Opéra have been rather lacking lately."

Erik smirked bleakly. "In other words, funds that ought to have gone toward maintaining my opera house found their way into the managers' pockets."

"Just so," she said, her voice weary.

"Well, then," Erik said slowly. With a sigh, he rose. "I had always known they would eventually decide they'd had enough of the Phantom, I suppose. But I had rather hoped it would not happen so soon." He swallowed. "Especially not just now, mon rêve, when I was truly happy for the first time in the whole course of my life." He tried to smile at her, but failed miserably. "It really is dreadfully inconvenient," he added, in an even more miserable attempt at levity.

"What are we to do?" she said.

"I must leave France."

Christine's eyes widened. "What?"

"Yes." He exhaled heavily. "Within the month. Sooner, if possible."

"No!" she cried. "That is not necessary! You-"

"It is the safest course of action." To his embarrassment, he felt a sob rise in his throat. He crushed it brutally.

"But my contract does not expire for months yet. If I break my contract, we shall not have anything to live on-"

He stepped backward in shock. "-You mean to... to come with me?"

"But of course I do! I love you. I don't ever want to be parted from you."

She froze. "Don't you want me to come? Erik?"

"I don't know… I had not thought all this would happen so soon. I... I never meant to make you leave Paris."

"What do you mean?" she cried.

"I have no right to ask it of you."

"I don't care about that. I hate Paris!"

"What? Don't be absurd," he said. "You are just saying that for my sake. No-one hates the City of Light." _Except me._

"Paris killed my father! It is a horrible, brutal place. I have been longing to leave since I was seven years old. I don't care where I go. Anywhere but here."

"But everyone you know is here," he said. "I have no right to make you give up your life for my sake."

Christine shrugged. "I would not be giving up my life. Meg will soon be married, I think, and then she'll go live with the Baron in the country, and Madame Giry will probably go wherever she goes. I don't really care for anyone else here."

"But you cannot leave your country, your friends, your home ... for me."

"But I can. We can build a new life together."

"Surely this cannot be," he said in a weak, shocked voice. He seemed almost to be speaking to himself.

"It can," Christine said.

To her horror, Erik's face crumpled in a silent sob. He sank to the ground, bent his head and kissed the hem of her dress.

"Don't," she pleaded, startled by this overwhelming display of devotion. "Oh, dear, don't. You must not kneel before me. It isn't right. I am not a queen or a princess. I am just Christine. Just your Christine."

He looked up and met her gaze, his expression full of gratitude and astonishment.

She leaned forward and kissed him - partly to show her affection, partly because she couldn't bear to see the look of desperation in his eyes.

He laid his head on her knee and closed his eyes, twining his arms around her waist and clinging to her. "Christine... Christine..."

She rested her head against his shoulder.

"Where were you thinking of going?" she asked at length, her lips buried in his hair. "Italy, I suppose? We could run away to Venice."

He sat back and took her hands, tangling their fingers up together, as though if he could get them stuck together enough that he couldn't leave, the world would agree to leave them alone and apologize politely for any inconvenience it had caused them.

"No. Stockholm, perhaps, if that would please you, or St. Petersburg." He wanted to laugh at how absurd it felt. Tearing himself away from the person who represented every shred of the goodness and kindness and warmth the world had to offer him to go barricade himself away in some frozen place.

And yet... she would be coming to him. All was not lost. There was something to hope for, a light on the horizon.

At the mention of St. Petersburg, the warmth drained out of Christine's gentle face, replaced by a look of horror. "But you would be thousands of miles away! And it would be for months."

"Yes, but what is there to do-?"

"-There is no need for this!" she said. "You can simply go to Italy, or - I would not ask you to go to Prussia, as a Frenchman - but Switzerland, perhaps, or Spain - I am told Spain is very beautiful; you would like it, I am sure-"

"-It isn't far enough," he said.

"Yes, it is."

"I must be far away."

"But... far away from France is far away from me."

"I know it," he said morosely.

"But this is madness! Do not talk any more of our being separated in this absurd fashion!"

The tone of command irritated him. "What?"

"It is... it is unnatural! You cannot torment me this way! I can't believe you would even consider it, after I have just explained all that you are to me!" Christine grabbed hold of his shoulders with a surprisingly fierce grip. "Please! How would I do without you?"

He leapt up, snatching away from her, leaving her staring helplessly at her empty hands. "What do you propose I do, Christine? However hard you suppose it will be to be away from me for a few months, I assure you it will be worse for me! But I shall not remain here to locked away like an animal in a zoo again!"

Christine's expression softened. "You cannot imagine I would dream of allowing you to be exposed to any such risk," she said sadly.

"Oh, and I suppose you have some clever plan?" he sneered.

"Is that so inconceivable?"

"There is no solution," he shrugged.

"There is."

"Hm."

"I think before we attempt any of these plans you have mentioned, you ought to give back the money you... er... borrowed from the managers," she said. "And stop writing those dreadful notes. That is what I wanted to tell you. It would solve everything."

His gaze swung woodenly towards her. A horrible stiff smile was plastered on his face. "You are being curiously elliptical. It sounds to me as though you suggested giving my money to those ignorant buffoons. Forgive me, but I cannot have heard you correctly." He folded his arms and waited for her to continue, one eyebrow raised superciliously.

She winced in annoyance. "You must give it some thought."

"Why?"

"You know as well as I do how greedy the managers are."

"Hmph."

"There is nothing they want less than a police investigation at the Opéra," she explained, trying to be patient. "It would be very bad for their image. They are only allowing it at all because they are so desperate for the money. If you returned it, I assure you they would make up some story about how it was all a misunderstanding and ask the police not to continue their investigation - which, fortunately, has not begun yet."

"But what if we are not so fortunate?" he cried. "What if they decided to continue the investigation anyway? Leaving the Continent will be expensive. Without the money, I should be stranded here with no means of escape!"

"I will help you. I have some money. Money no-one is going to report me to the police for having."

"But not enough!" he cried. "It wouldn't be enough, and you know it!" He paused. "You don't want me to be able to go, that is the trouble! You want me trapped here!"

She stared at him, horribly wounded. "Erik!"

"Or perhaps - perhaps you do not really want to go with me, _hein_? You're too frightened! Is it the unknown you're frightened of, though, really... or me? You cannot bear the thought of being alone with me, having to put your faith in me; no, why would you-"

"-No! It is nothing of the kind!" Christine practically wailed. "How could you think such a thing? If you must know, I am afraid because they might find you anyway!" She burst into a fresh flood of tears. "No matter how far we went, if there was a warrant for your arrest, how should we ever truly know we were safe? We should never be free!"

Suddenly he saw, far later than he should have, of course, that he had wounded her. Immediately he cursed himself for his outburst. "Mon cœur... Not if we go far enough," he said weakly, trying to comfort her. He put a pitiful hand on her arm. When she gave him a look, he saw at once how false, how pathetic the gesture was, and dropped his hand. He was like a bad actor. He didn't know how to move, how to stand. He didn't know what gestures conveyed true affection. And even if he did, there weren't any that could convey how much he loved Christine, how sorry he was.

He tried again. "We shall be safe," he said.

"You cannot be sure of that," she said. "You must not take risks, mon cœur - not now! Perhaps your life is unimportant to you, but it is of importance to me!"

This sent another flood of anger surging through him. "Then am I never to have a moment's peace?" he said. "Would you have me always glancing over my shoulder every moment for the rest of my days?"

"No, certainly not! I truly believe you could be free, my love! I would never ask you to consider giving up the money if I did not think it could end this."

 _End this._ Nothing could ever end this. _This_ was his life. His whole existence was one long escape attempt with no safe harbor, no friendly border waiting for him. Even if he gave the money back, he would always be a repulsive, sniveling wretch. His sentence had been passed in another life, his punishment meted out while he was in his mother's womb. There would be no release for him except in death.

He was, assuredly and inescapably, the most hideous bridegroom in the world. At least if he could hold on to some part of the fortune he amassed, he could atone in some measure for his ugliness by making the rest of Christine's life beautiful. That would be a better gift to her than his safety. He couldn't come to her empty-handed. It would be a travesty. Why couldn't she understand that?

"Mon rêve, don't ask this of me," he said in a pleading voice. "You know I would give you anything I can, but I cannot give you this. That money is my only chance to give us a life together - to provide for you in the manner you deserve."

"But I never asked you to-"

"-Yes, I know you did not, but it is a matter of importance to me nonetheless. What is more, that money is my security. Without it, I have no protection."

"I am your protection now," she said. "But before, you did not have anyone looking after you. You have me now. And you always will. You may depend on me as you would on yourself. Don't you believe that?" Her brown eyes, wide and soft, brimming with unfathomable affection, looked deep into his.

He was frightened by the power he saw there. Her love was too much. Too strong. He couldn't bear it. His mind refused to accept it.

His mouth twisted up as though in pain, and looked as though he were choosing his next words with care. "That is not the point," he said at last in a stiff voice, looking away. "As I have already had the pleasure to point out to you several times, we have no proof that returning the money would solve anything."

"Then you won't return it?" she said.

"No!" he shouted.

"Oh, what a dreadful dilemma. If you return the money you cannot leave... Leaving may do no good, but returning the money might not either. Then... we are at an impasse," she said in an unsteady voice.

"Yes, I suppose we are, aren't we?" he shouted, so loudly Christine jumped and his voice echoed around the grotto.

When the sound died away, it was followed by a long, heavy silence.

He glared at her helplessly, furious that he couldn't take her with him. Damn her. If only she had never told him of her love, this would just be another move, no more difficult than the rest.

Suddenly Christine's whole demeanor changed. "Oh, my darling, my darling… What has happened?" she said. She leapt up and suddenly, she was in his arms before he knew what had happened.

His arms sprang up in surprise.

"I love you more than anything else," she murmured, her eyes shut tight with love. "More than my own heart. More even than music."

"More than music, Christine?" he said in amazement.

"Yes, more even that that. We cannot let these trials come between us. We must not. I do not want us to fight or argue."

At this sudden and unexpected gentleness, the anger drained out of him. His arms dropped. He let them go tentatively around her waist. "Nor do I," he said, looking almost embarrassed.

"I am so very frightened..." Christine looked up at him and shook her head sadly. "Why were we saying such dreadful things to one another? Why were we fighting? We're not enemies. We ought to be allies, always." He had been the one who had said the dreadful things, but she did not point that out. She knew he regretted them.

"Because the world is conspiring to keep us apart," he said. "It doesn't want me to ever have anything as beautiful and good as you. It can't stand it."

For a long while, they simply held each other. Both wished they could remain like that forever.

She was the one spot on his map of the world not labeled _Here there be danger. Here there be monsters._

But he was a monster. And so he had to spend his days with them.

"You must go, mon rêve," he said at last, pulling away and looking down at her. "It is not safe for you to remain here."

"Do not go," she pleaded. "Where would you live? What if you find no safe refuge there? You shall be far better off here with me, where I can help you, and Madame Giry. Please, please consider it."

He nodded slowly. "I certainly will not be ready to leave for at least another week, anyway, and I at least have enough faith in my own powers to feel certain that the investigation will not be able to find me within the next few days." He almost managed a smile. "And so, for the moment, it is neither here nor there."

Christine hesitated. "Very well. But you must, you _must_ take care," she said at last. "Perhaps... if I may say so... more care than you were taking before?"

How stupid he had been, he thought as he looked at her. Her love was worth any sacrifice. She was worth anything. He smiled sadly. "Now that I have you to think of, mon rêve, I certainly shall."

 **END OF CHAPTER 18.**

 ** _Thank you so much for reading! Thank you TangoSalsa, MissGalindaa, asprankle, Cry of Fallen Dove, and guest reviewer for your kind reviews!_**

* * *

 ** _Note_ :**

 **I got stuck for awhile with this chapter because I was going to end it with them having a huge fight and Christine storming off... But I just could not make it work. Christine refused to cooperate. She just would not storm off and leave Erik hanging. Instead, she most unexpectedly gave him a huge hug. It came as a complete surprise to me! (Kind of like the kiss at the end of the movie!) And then of course, he couldn't stay mad at her after that. They love each other too much to fight for long. Aww! This is one of many reasons why I firmly believe they're perfect for one another.**


	19. An Interrupted Cadence

**_Music suggestions: 'A Secret Garden' by Patrick Doyle; 'Aquarium' by Camille Saint-Saëns; 'Attraversiamo' by Dario Marianelli; 'Yes!' by Dario Marinaelli ('Jane Eyre'); 'Letters' by Abel Korzeniowski ('W/E')_**

 ** _And now, without further ado, Chapter 19._**

* * *

The next few days were excruciating. They were living on borrowed time and they knew it. Erik was adamant that Christine never visit him at his home again. They both agreed it was safer for him to come to her, lest anyone follow her and find the passage leading to his lair. But when he did come up to the opera house, she shook with fright at every moment, always looking over her shoulder, more terrified than ever of his being caught. Thus, they had had to satisfy themselves with tense, clandestine meetings, never lasting more than a few minutes, usually at night. She longed to hold him, but he was afraid to touch her, lest she be condemned for being seen with him. It wore on them both.

He had even cancelled their lessons for the time being. Christine was still studying with Pauline Viardot-García every day - the great singer had cut her fees to almost nothing, saying a talent like hers needed to be nurtured at all costs, so Christine didn't even have to ask Raoul to pay anymore - so he said there was no need.

But she was surprised by how cold and clinical it felt in comparison.

Madame Viardot was not unkind, and she was certainly every bit as capable an instructor as her reputation implied. But Erik had found the joy and magic and fire in the music as no-one else could.

He had always made her laugh. Even as the angel, he had made her laugh. No-one else could compare. Without him, she felt as though a part of her was missing. Ever since she'd admitted to herself that she loved him, she needed his voice, his eyes on her, his hands reaching out for her.

But they found ways to bridge the separation. Christine would find notes slipped under the door of her practice-room or letters in her mailbox, songs he'd composed in her honor, or lines of poetry - Hafiz, Victor Hugo of course, Chateaubriand, Rumi. _"The heart is a thousand-stringed instrument that only love can tune..."_

And they had something to look forward to to help those days pass. Christine had made him promise that he would show her his favorite park, and he intended to keep that promise. As it happened, he had a particular reason for wanting to do so. It would be one of the few occasions for the foreseeable future where they would be able to spend more than a few moments together, and he intended to make the most of it.

He had great intentions for this outing.

And so, one day he suggested the idea to her - though he was careful to omit his real reason for planning the trip. To his surprise and relief, she agreed to the scheme at once. (As it happened, the pain of constantly being apart was weighing on her so much that it was wearing down her caution, just as it was for him. Secrecy and love, they were finding, were difficult to reconcile.) And so it was decided. To the park they were to go.

On the night they had agreed on, he walked the four kilometers to the park, scarcely aware of where he was going. He was too preoccupied with thoughts of what lay ahead to think about anything else.

Fortunately, the police in that district of Paris - aptly named Quartier du Combat - were too busy with anarchist bombings to take notice of one man wearing a scarf over his face on a warm night. The neighborhoods in view of the park were decidedly bourgeois, wealthy and sedate - rather dull and idle, in fact, in his opinion - but beyond that, especially to the north, the streets quickly disintegrated into a tangle of poorly-lit, dangerous alleys.

He had insisted that Christine take a cab.

She arrived a few minutes after he did - he had planned for it to happen that way; the thought of her waiting alone at night filled him with horror - the driver setting her down at their meeting place on the grand Rue de Mexico.

He waited until the cab was out of sight before coming forward to meet her and murmuring her name.

She rushed into his arms and he kissed her thirstily.

At last, at the sound of footsteps passing by, he remembered that they were, in fact, not the only two human beings living in the world, and pulled away, startled by the recollection. "I think, mon rêve, that we ought to go," he murmured, pressing his lips against her curls.

She nodded silently.

They spirited themselves over the fence. Christine scaled it with even more ease than the first time.

"I fear I am corrupting you," he said when they were on the ground.

She laughed. "I was sensible this time - I wore a decent pair of boots, you know." And she whirled around and plunged further into the park.

When he was sure they were out of sight of the street, he took off his heavy cloak with a flourish, letting it come to rest in immaculate folds over his arm.

Christine stopped and took in the sight of him with a surprised smile. He was resplendent in a swallow-tail coat, white waistcoat and matching kid gloves. "How dashing you look! You make me feel quite underdressed."

"Me, upstage Christine Daae?" he said. "Impossible."

She smiled. "I do like a man who appreciates good clothes. What is the occasion?" she asked, gesturing to his elegant ensemble.

Silently he thanked Madame Giry for telling him to learn to dress well. "Occasion? Whatever do you mean?" he said disingenuously. "I am sure I do not know what you are talking of."

"I know your ways - you have some kind of scheme in mind, I think," she said with a knowing smile. "Why did you send me an evening-gown to wear tonight?" She reached down and tenderly smoothed the folds of her gown, an ethereal creation of icy lilac silk, embroidered with pale gold butterflies. "Thank-you, by-the-way - it is the most beautiful thing I have ever owned. I shall treasure it. But-"

"-I am delighted to hear it. I thought it suited you. You are radiant."

She beamed up at him. "Thank you. But the curiosity is driving me mad, you must know. Are we going to a ball in the park in the middle of the night?" She laughed.

He smiled back. "You shall see. Come." He put a hand on her back and maneuvered her gently along the path.

Parc des Buttes-Chaumont - which translated to the inelegant name of "Bald Hills", like Prince Andrei's estate Gora Lysaya in 'War and Peace' - was one of the places that made it impossible for Erik to hate Paris, no matter how many ghastly memories it held for him.

Less than a decade before, it had been a toxic wasteland - a disused mine filled with refuse and reeking of despair. But then a committee of engineers assigned to reinvent the city had taken a look at it and seen not a worthless dumping-ground but a unique landscape full of promise. The cavernous, skull-like hollows the miners had scarred into the ground were the perfect site for a lake, they'd decided, and what remained of the mines themselves could be made into a picturesque artificial cave.

The project had been completed a few years before, and the result was nothing short of a miracle. The wasteland had been transformed into a paradise. Everything was green and brimming with life.

Families of ducks had quickly taken over the new lake, and a picturesque tower of granite, taller than any of the nearby buildings, rose out of the center of the water. Atop it sat a delicately carved gazebo, the Temple du Sybille, that offered some of the finest views in the city.

The pièce de resistance in Erik's opinion, however, was a hundred-foot-high waterfall hidden in a grotto near the island. It was difficult to imagine that something so vast and wild-looking could really be hidden within one of the most industrious cities in the world. When one stumbled upon it, one could be forgiven for thinking one had been transported to the rainforests of Brazil.

The most extraordinary part was that it was almost entirely man-made, the water brought from nearby Canal d'Ourcq by a series of pumps.

In fact, Erik had had something to do with its creation. Word had gotten out that the engineers were going to have to abandon their plans for the waterfall because they couldn't find an effective arrangement for the pumps. So he had quietly drawn up a series of designs, along with a few suggestions for other parts of the park. He had agonized for weeks about whether to include his name with them, but at the last minute he had decided to submit them anonymously. It was the last he'd heard about the matter. But when the park opened and he slipped in one night to have a look around, he'd found that the waterfall had been engineered according to his specifications.

He'd spent the past few years cursing himself for his cowardice. How different things might have been if he had been able to take credit for his work.

But now all that was different. Now there was Christine. Nothing else seemed to matter in comparison to that. Now that he had what he valued most, it was remarkable how everything else became easier to bear. He must not be a complete fool if he had managed to get this one thing right.

The thought of her roused him from his reverie. He looked over at her adoringly.

She was walking along with her arms held blissfully in the air, drinking in the night breeze. Her eyes were shut, but as she felt his gaze on her, she opened them and looked over at him with a smile.

"What are you thinking of, Christine?" he asked fondly.

"That is a dangerous question."

He laughed. "You will find I am accustomed to danger."

"Well, then - I was thinking that though I love Parc Monceau, especially after our excursions there, this will always be my favorite park."

"You have been here before, Christine?" He frowned. That would blunt the impact of his plan.

"Well, I came once years ago with Meg, but we couldn't find the waterfall, so it is hardly worth mentioning; after all, the waterfall is the whole point of the Parc, don't you think?"

"Ah." He hid a sigh of relief. The waterfall was the main thing. He wanted that to be a surprise. "Yes, quite so."

"One wouldn't think it would be so elusive - after all, it is thirty feet high." She made a wry face.

"It is very well-hidden," he said kindly.

"How did you find it?" she asked.

"I have my ways."

"Oh, very well, then. I can see you are determined to have your secrets."

"You are quite right." He smiled pleasantly. "But you shall see it tonight."

She looked at him inquisitively. "But it is powered by machine, as I understand. Won't the pumps be switched off now that the Parc is closed?"

"Why, yes." He grinned like a little boy. "But as you are no doubt aware, machinery can be switched on as well as off."

Christine stared at him with a mixture of excitement and alarm. "Erik...!"

After a few minutes' walk - taking time to pause to admire the full moon reflected, like a pearl, on the shimmering dark surface of the lake - they came upon the famous grotto. It was strangely silent, but retained its picturesque aspect even without the waterfall. At the back of the cave, a series of stone ledges, perfectly designed to accommodate the waterfall during the day, led up to a wide fissure in the stone wall. A broad beam of moonlight came through the opening, reaching all the way to the grotto floor to illuminate a still pool, still holding a bit of water, at their feet.

"How extraordinary!" Christine gasped. "Even without the waterfall it is beautiful. I cannot believe this was all built from nothing." Then, after a few moments, "It rather reminds me of what I think the Pantheon would be like, with its oculus; do you not think so?"

"Why, yes. You are right," he said, smiling delightedly at her. "And you know, someday you shall go to Rome and see the Pantheon for yourself. Soon every opera-house in Italy will be clamoring for you."

She turned and fixed him with a solemn gaze. "Someday, mon cœur, you shall be able to come with me."

Seeing that he was about to protest this prediction, she kissed him and darted away.

He caught up to her at the edge of the pool, catching her around the waist. She came gladly into his arms, resting her head against his immaculate shirt-front.

"Would you be so kind as to wait here momentarily?" he said after a moment, backing away from her- though he kept one of her hands clasped in his, as though they were about to begin a waltz.

She blinked in surprise. "What for?" she said, curious.

He smiled mysteriously. "I shall not be long."

She sighed playfully. "You have piqued my curiosity."

"Good." He turned to go, clearing the pool in a single leap, and started toward the ledges on the other side of the grotto. Christine watched in surprise as he scaled the cave wall, as agile as a panther. In moments, he was twenty feet above the floor, clinging precariously to the sheer cliff face.

"Do take care!" she couldn't stop herself from crying.

He looked down and grinned. "Are you worried for me?"

"Yes, but you already know I worry for you constantly, so don't gloat."

He smiled fondly at her, and then he'd disappeared through the hole in the cave roof.

She waited there, watching him in her mind's eye. She had a feeling he was going up there to start the waterfall running, but she suppressed the idea - though she couldn't imagine what other business he could have there - in order to preserve the feeling of suspense.

She stood and waited.

After a few moments, there came a faint rushing sound. Mist began to seep into the cave.

Erik reappeared momentarily, dropping down from seemingly out of nowhere and alighting beside her so suddenly she jumped.

He smiled apologetically and put his arm about her waist.

"Behold," he said, gesturing above their heads.

As she watched, rivulets began to trickle down from the ledge like threads of silver. Their exquisite music filled the air.

Not long afterward, the water came rushing into the cave full-force and drowned out the delicate sound with a deeper voice. It tumbled down the four ledges like a flight of enormous stairs. It filled the pool, and the little stream that drained from it to the park outside.

The droplets it sent up refracted the moonbeams like diamonds. A diaphanous band of pastel colors materialized in the air, a faint night-time rainbow.

It felt like they had stumbled into a fairy kingdom.

Christine stepped forward, entranced, nearly walking into the pool.

He maneuvered her out of range of the spray; she was too bewitched by the sight to think of things like that.

As he looked down at her sweet face, he saw that there were tears of wonder in her eyes.

"Can there be any more beautiful spot in the whole city?" she asked.

"Nothing less than the most beautiful place in the most beautiful city in the world would do, Christine," he said.

She turned to him with a smile. "Do for what?"

"Christine... I... I wanted to give you something beautiful tonight."

"You have."

"It can never match what you have done for me," he said, shaking his head. "You... You have saved me from my solitude. You have made my music take flight as never before. I almost dare to believe that you truly want me with you, here beside you."

"I do," she said. "I have never been more certain of anything in my life."

"Well, then," he managed. His voice had dwindled to little more than a whisper.

He found a spot on the cave floor that was still dry and carefully knelt down. With fumbling fingers he took out the ring box that he had been anxiously turning over in his pocket the whole evening.

Christine let out a gasp, her hands flying to her mouth.

He wasn't sure what he said - whatever it was, it came out molto prestissimo in his nervousness.

She was sobbing and made some reply. He was too overwhelmed to remember the precise wording, but whatever it was, it was the reply he had been hoping for; somehow, in some beautiful words, she had conveyed to him the extraordinary fact that yes, she was accepting his proposal, yes, she wanted to be his wife!

Dazed by his joy, the next thing he knew he had her in his arms, her face like a wet flower at his lips, his hands buried in her hair.

For a long time, he was too overwhelmed to speak. He buried his face in her shoulder, worried that she would melt away into thin air like the mist, that this whole moment was nothing but a mad, beautiful dream, that he would wake alone under the opera house, despair clinging to him like a shroud.

He forced himself back to reality - if this was indeed reality. He realized that these past few weeks were the first time in his life that he had preferred the world around him to being in his own head.

Christine pulled away and smiled blissfully into his face. She was so close he could feel her breath on his skin.

He looked down at the ring box, which somehow had remained in his hand, the ring miraculously still in place in the white silk lining.

She started to take off her left glove.

He froze and looked down at her hand awkwardly, then took it in his, tenderly tracing a circle on it with her thumb.

Her smile faded a little. "Aren't you going to help me put it on?" she prodded gently, raising her eyebrows. "I believe that is your task."

He swallowed.

She peered at him inquiringly.

"I am afraid you must not wear it on your finger," he responded at last. "If you wear it at all, it must be out of sight. Around your neck, perhaps."

"Oh," she said in a small voice.

"I am sorry, but this must continue to be a secret, until we have resolved... everything." He didn't want to speak of their argument at a time like this.

"Oh. Yes, I suppose you are right," she said, looking away.

He couldn't see her face. "Christine?" he said, peering at her in concern. "Are you well?"

She looked up at him, and he saw there was a radiant smile on her face. "A secret engagement! Think of it!"

"Mon rêve," he said in an uneven voice. "You are too good for me... What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"I don't know," she said, with a convincing look of puzzlement.

He looked up at her in surprise.

"It must have been something dreadful!" she finished, breaking down into laughter.

Soon he was laughing, too.

When they'd recovered he took an exquisitely worked gold chain, scarcely thicker than a thread, from his pocket. "Here," he said, moving to stand behind her.

"No," Christine said, turning towards him. "Not yet, I think."

"Oh?"

"I just want to wear it on my hand for a few minutes," she said. "Then you may hide it away in some dark chasm if you wish. But not before."

At last he nodded. "I suppose that will do no harm," he said. "And I confess I would like to see it on your hand."

She beamed.

He took her hand and slowly unbuttoned her glove, kissing the delicate skin of her wrist. At last he drew it off and took the ring from its box.

Christine smiled up at him, her eyes full of trust and hope.

Suddenly he froze, his senses on the alert, his attention caught by a noise outside the cave.

The sound of footsteps.

A moment later she noticed it too. A panicked look stole over her face. "What was that?"

"It is probably of no consequence," he said, trying for an unconcerned tone. But his arms had gone around her protectively the moment he heard the sound.

And she had seen the fear on his face.

His next words were cut off by the piercing sound of a policeman's whistle.

Christine let out a little yelp of fright.

"I see you in there!" came a harsh voice, just outside the entrance of the cave.

"We must go!" Christine gasped.

They scrambled toward the cave entrance, hoping to make it out in time. But she tripped and plunged into the stream, wincing as she scraped her hands on the rock and the chilly water soaked her up to the thighs.

There was no time to leave now; the footsteps were almost at the entrance of the cave. Erik helped her to her feet and wordlessly pulled her around a corner, into a shadowy crevice out of sight.

"What shall we do?" she whispered.

"I don't know." His voice was heavy with despair.

"Mon cœur, I am wretchedly sorry!"

"It is not your doing," he said. "I am to blame. What a fool I have been."

"I know you're in there!" came the officer's voice, followed by another piercing blast of the whistle. The sound made Christine jump and Erik's arms close tighter around her. "There's no way out of there except out through this entrance!"

Christine looked up at the hole in the ceiling of the cave. "Yes, there is," she murmured.

 _End of Chapter 19. Thank you for reading!_

* * *

 ** _Thank you so much to An Author in the Shadows, TangoSalsa, asprankle1, Caitlyn, Cry of Fallen Dove (such a cool username, by the way!) and the guest who left such a kind review on the last chapter. And of course, thank you as ever to MissGalindaa and FanFantome for your continued support. It means the world to me._**


	20. Ridotto

**Chapter 20**

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 **Soundtrack suggestions: 'Desire' by Terry Davies (Brideshead Revisited); 'North and South Opening Theme' by Martin Phipps (Brideshead Revisited); 'J'y Suis Jamais Allée', Yann Tiersen (Amélie); 'Humility and Love' by Christopher Young (Creation).**

* * *

Erik followed her gaze. "It would not be safe for you to climb up there," he protested, looking at her in alarm.

"Yes, but you know how, surely."

He stared at her in horror. "I shall not abandon you to the police!"

"Then watch from up there, if you must. But stay out of sight, and take care not to do anything careless!"

"What?" he cried furiously.

Christine bit back her annoyance. "There isn't time for this!" she cried. "I have little to fear from the police - but you must go! I could not bear if you were arrested because you stayed behind to help me! Please, my love! I shall meet you at... at the stables outside the Opéra. No-one will be there at this time of night."

He fixed her in his gaze.

 _What is he waiting for?_ she thought.

"Very well," he said at last, his eyes cold. "But if he tries to take you anywhere, I will kill him."

From the tone of his voice, she was very much afraid that he meant it.

Before she could protest this, he made his escape.

Not a moment later, a man came storming into the grotto. He wore the uniform of the Paris gendarmerie.

Christine, calling on all her skill in improvisation, rushed toward him. "Monsieur l'Officier?" she cried in a panicked voice. "Thank God! I was so very frightened!"

He looked at her in confusion. "The park has been closed for almost three hours, Mademoiselle. Didn't you hear the whistle at nine o'clock?"

"Yes, but I became lost," she invented. Thank God the park was vast and wild enough for that to be believable. That story would never have fooled anyone if she'd tried it in tame little Parc Monceau, no matter how stupid she pretended to be. She was grateful, too, for the cloak that covered her gown. She would have had a difficult time explaining how she happened to be wearing evening-wear when she got lost in the park. Still, in spite of all that, she conjured up some tears to help the effect. "My friends left me behind, and I thought..." She trailed off into sobs. It wasn't difficult to produce some, given her distress.

The officer's expression softened. He regarded with a sympathetic and rather condescending look. "Mm-hm. I don't suppose you know how the pump machinery came to be turned on?"

"Machinery?" she said, assuming her blankest expression. "I don't understand." For good measure, she let a little of her foreign accent seep into her pronunciation.

The officer stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. "Never mind. I can see you don't know what I'm talking of. "Nonetheless, Mademoiselle, I am obliged to fine you the sum of fifty francs."

Christine winced. She could scarcely afford the sum - Erik even less. Still, she didn't dare object. "Yes, Monsieur l'Officier," she said, biting her tongue.

"Your name and address?" he said, taking a pad of paper from his pocket. "Take care you do not give a false one, or we shall find out, and you shall have to appear in court."

She sighed. "16 Rue du Mont-Cenis, appartement 13. My name is Kristina Isaksdotter." She spelled it.

"Hm," he said without interest, writing this down. "Well." At last he nodded. "I shall escort you to the gate - since you seem unable to find your own way," he said tartly.

"Thank you," Christine said. Anything to put more distance between him and Erik - if Erik were not following them, that was.

They walked in silence back through the park. Christine listened in constant terror, sure she would hear the sound of a twig snapping or gravel crunching behind them. But if Erik were there, he was taking care to be stealthy.

"I am really so embarrassed. You won't, ah, tell anyone about this, will you, Monsieur l'Officier?" she asked after a few paces.

"You are fortunate- for a minor offense like this, the records will not be public," he assured her.

"Oh. I am glad. Thank you," Christine said; even though it wasn't his doing, it seemed safer to be overly polite.

In a few minutes they came upon a gate - a different one than before, opening onto the rather disreputable Rue de la Vera-Cruz.

The officer opened it with a heavy key and ushered her through. "Good night, Mademoiselle," he said curtly, shutting it with a clang behind her. "Take care that this doesn't happen again."

She hovered nervously outside. Where was Erik? She wished she could believe he'd had the sense to flee, but a part of her knew he hadn't. He would never leave her alone.

Trying to be stealthy, she peered over her shoulder into the park.

"Good night," the officer said again, more firmly this time. She wondered if he suspected something. "See that you find a cab home. You're fortunate you haven't come to any harm this evening. The streets are not safe for a young lady alone at night."

 _I did not come alone!_ Christine wanted to shout, though she knew it was irrational.

She could see that the officer was going to keep his eyes fixed on her until she left. There was no chance of slipping back into the park.

She gathered what little remained of her patience.

"As you say, Monsieur l'Officier," she sighed at last. _Why don't you go throw yourself off a bridge_ _, Inspector Javert._ "Thank you for your consideration. Bon soirée."

A curious way of bidding someone good evening. There certainly was no soirée here. Nothing to celebrate. All the light and laughter seemed to have drained out of the world.

After allowing herself one last longing gaze back into the park - all her hopes and dreams seemed to be trapped behind that fence - she reluctantly turned to go.

Though she was on the opposite side of the park from where they had come in forty-five minutes (had it only been forty-five minutes?) before, she couldn't bring herself to leave just yet. When she was out of sight of the gate, she stopped and waited for Erik. But a quarter of an hour passed and no familiar shadow came into view.

Her fear for him began to mingle with other feelings, chief among them an overwhelming sensation of disappointment. A few minutes ago, she had been an ardently happy, newly engaged woman. The man she loved was there and they were standing in the most beautiful spot in Paris.

Now the gown he had given her was ruined, her hands were scraped and bleeding, and she had run up against the law for the first time in her life. And what was worst by far, Erik was gone. Would they never be able to have a moment's happiness?

She waited and waited, but with an increasing feeling of hopelessness. Eventually, the dread of standing on a dark street by herself overwhelmed her. She hadn't thought to bring the dagger Meg insisted she carry with her - after all, she had assumed Erik would be by her side the whole evening, she thought miserably - and while the street was far from the carnival of horrors he had feared she would encounter were she unaccompanied, the few passers-by she saw were aiming bewildered, suspicious, and even hostile glances in her direction. She was not safe here. At last, with the greatest reluctance, she hailed a cab back to the Opéra.

* * *

When she alighted in front of the opera house stables, she looked around frantically, but Erik was not there. As she took in the familiar surroundings, it occurred to her all at once how exhausted she was. The stableyard practically seemed to spin around her, and she cast her eyes about frantically for somewhere to sit. A peek into the stall of her favorite horse, César, yielded a large feed pail. She borrowed it from him in exchange for a kiss on his soft pink nose, upended it into a makeshift stool, and sat to wait.

An hour went by. The scrapes on her hands burned, and she'd lost all feeling in her feet. She contemplated taking off her soaking stockings, but it would have been too absurd, and so she sat and shivered.

She had never felt so alone. Even the horses were all asleep, César having drifted off again.

She kept peering into the darkness, hoping every shape was Erik coming toward her, that every sound, no matter how unlikely, meant he was about to come into view. Each time she had her hopes dashed. The night dragged on. In her mind, she murmured prayers continuously. She even said the Ave Maria, as best she could - something she had never tried before. If the Holy Mother had any help to offer, she wasn't going to object.

She felt as though she were going mad with fear and uncertainty. What had things come to, that she was sitting alone in a deserted stable-yard at one-thirty in the morning?

Had it really been only the day before that she had been onstage covered in diamonds and applauded by hundreds?

Curious to think that both those things were because of Erik. Nothing small ever happened when you were with him.

After what seemed like hours - a glance at her watch later revealed it had been about forty-five minutes - just as she was beginning to seriously contemplate returning to the park and taking her chances, she finally heard footsteps. She leapt up and ran to the stable-door, torn between hope and fear.

A silhouette loomed toward her out of the distance. She peered at it, the shape swimming in and out of focus.

At last it came close enough to recognize. It was him. He was safe. At once, the world righted itself. Everything seemed to fall into place. She was still exhausted and shaken, but in the depths of her heart she was at peace.

"Mon cœur!" she practically screamed, and she flung herself into his arms. "I was so very frightened. Are you well?"

"Yes... I am sorry. I returned as quickly as I could." Indeed, he looked out of breath and exhausted. "Forgive me, Christine."

"There is no need to apologize. Thank God you are safe! I could never have forgiven myself if... if..." Her voice broke, and she stifled a sob.

Erik froze in horror. "Yes, I am well... but you are not! Don't cry," he pleaded. "Oh, don't cry. Mon rêve... I am so wretchedly sorry; my God... What a miserable evening this has turned out to be for you."

"No... no..."

"This is all my fault. What a damned fool I have been. You are shivering. How long have you been sitting out here?" He cupped her cheek in one white-gloved hand.

"I am not cold; I am frightened!" Christine shook her head, trying in vain to stop the tears from flowing. "Mon cœur, I understand now - we must leave France."

"What?"

"You must go as soon as it is possible!" She seized his arm. "We must not delay any longer. You were right. Oh, forgive me - I have been so wretchedly selfish!"

"No, Christine, never."

"You must go as soon as possible!"

He looked at her uncertainly. "If you are quite resolved..."

"Yes, I am, I give you my word." She looked up and met his gaze. "I might easily have seen you arrested and taken away tonight. I cannot risk that."

"Very well, then." He swallowed. "Though I am sorry indeed that it had to happen in such a... a wretched way, I confess I am glad we have come to agree on this matter. It is essential."

She nodded. "I am resolved."

"Thank you, mon rêve," he said.

"However, I have one thing to ask."

"Oh?"

She hesitated. "It is rather, er... rather significant."

"You may ask freely."

"Very well, then." She took a deep breath and looked steadily into his eyes. "I want us to be married before you go."

 _ **END OF CHAPTER 20.**_

* * *

 ** _Thank you so much for reading, guys! And thank you so very much to WrappedinRed, TangoSalsa, Chryselis, and MissGalindaa for your kind and thoughtful reviews! They mean so very much to me. They made my day! I am so grateful for your support._**


	21. Down Once More

_**Chapter 21 - Down Once More**_

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 _ **Music suggestions for this chapter: 'Ellen Leaves' (The Age of Innocence) by Elmer Bernstein; 'I've Seen Hell' (North and South) by Martin Phipps**_

* * *

Erik stared at her in surprise. All of a sudden everything was happening at once. This was what he wanted, but it was almost overpowering. In fact, he was disturbed to find, his happiness felt more like fear. What was the matter with him?

Christine must have seen the shock on his face, for her look of happiness faltered.

"You could leave straightaway the very next day, if you think it safest," she said quickly. "But mon cœur... Before I lose you for months, I must have one morning where the first thought that crosses my mind isn't whether you are safe - where I can awaken and know at once that you are there beside me."

His mind reeled. The thought of waking at her side sent desire searing through him. He had dreamed of it, of course, but hearing her say it made it seem so real he could almost taste it.

And yet, it was impossible.

"To have you hold me and not have to think about the world, if only for a few minutes," Christine finished. She caressed his cheek, just where his mask ended. A shiver of pleasure ran through him at the touch.

"Have we not earned it by now, after all we have endured?" she said.

He leaned into her hand, savoring its warmth. It was a few moments before he could find words. "I understand, I think, and you know nothing would give me greater happiness than to have you as my wife- but mon rêve, we cannot be married in France. The announcement must be posted for two weeks."

"Yes, but you said you would not be prepared to leave for at least another few weeks anyhow, so that would not delay you."

"The announcement would be posted _publicly_."

"Oh." Her face fell. "I see what you mean. Well, there must be some solution. I shall not give up."

Her determination almost frightened him. It reawoke the old fear that this was all somehow some deception. Some trap that had to be sprung at a certain time. In his distress and confusion, he resorted to idiotic jokes. "You are very determined, mon rêve. Is there something I ought to know?"

Her eyebrows went up and she blinked, taken aback. "If there is, then a miracle has taken place!" she said wryly. "Mon cœur, I hope you are joking."

He wanted to slap himself. "Yes, of course. Forgive me. That was absurd-"

"-Well, in that case - very witty of you, I am sure," she said. "Now, devise one of your schemes, if you please. This ought to be easy for you."

"But-"

An idea appeared in her eyes. "-We can go somewhere very far out in the country," she said. "Where no-one will notice."

Erik shook his head. "Here in France people will notice anything if the name Christine Daae is connected with it." He sighed, and then added, his wit rising faintly, "Perhaps our endeavors to further your career have been a little too successful."

Christine's expression had changed as soon as he said the word 'Daae'. She gasped so loudly it startled him.

"Have I said something to offend you?" he asked in alarm. "You know I jested-"

"-Not in the slightest! You have merely reminded me of something." Her eyes were bright. "It occurred to me this evening in the park, when the gendarme took down my information-"

"-He took down your information?" Erik cried.

"-Yes, he fined me," she said indifferently, ignoring his aghast face.

"He _fined you_?" Erik shouted.

"Mind, someone may hear!" she said, putting a hand on his arm. "Yes, I-"

As always, he did not listen to her. It was impossible to make Erik do anything he did not wish to do. "-That devil!" he shouted. "I shall pay, of course. You shall not lose one sou because of my foolishness. But... the sheer indignity for you! How dare he- What right has he to-"

"-But that is not of importance," Christine went on in the same easy and pleasant tone. "The good news is... you see, mon amour, my name is not Christine Daae!"

The surprise of this was enough to startle him out of his fury. "What?" He blinked stupidly and shook his head. "What are you talking of?"

She smiled at his confusion. "Have you some objection?"

"Yes, I have: Your name _is_ Christine Daae!"

"What makes you think that?" she said, smiling.

"It is in all the programs and on the posters. People call you 'La Daae'. Look, your initials are on your handbag; I saw it earlier. Voilà - C. A. C. D.: Christine Alexandra Cathrine Daae."

"But nonetheless, the fact remains."

"Then you must be an imposter," he laughed, shaking his head. "Where is the woman I know?"

"It is true," she said simply. Folding her hands primly in front of her and fixing a pleasant smile on her face, she stood there and watched his reaction, savoring his confusion.

"No, I shall not stand for this nonsense!" he laughed. "Only one of us may have a pseudonym."

"I am afraid it is too late for you to do anything about it. The matter was decided as soon as I came out of the womb."

"Oh, indeed! What is next - are you long-lost royalty? I would credit any story at this point."

She smiled. "Perhaps I am. Perhaps you are marrying a princesse. I am full of surprises."

"Indeed it would seem so! Next you are going to tell me you are not even French!" he quipped.

She laughed aloud. "Well, that is just the thing, as it happens," she said when she had recovered the ability to speak. "Surnames are patrilineal in Sweden. It's one's father's name plus "sson" or "dotter"."

"Yes, but your father's name was Daae."

"Yes; he was of Norwegian extraction originally, and he was born there," she explained. "But since I was born in Sweden, my official name as it was recorded on my certificate of birth is derived from his first name."

"Christine Isaksdotter?"

"Yes, just so," she said. "Kristina Isaksdotter, to be precise - with a K - it is a delightful letter, is it not?"

"The most fearsome letter our alphabet has to offer." He smiled. "Kristina Isaksdotter and Christine Daae. Yes, to my eye it would look entirely different," Erik said, growing more hopeful. " 'Lately: Mademoiselle Kristina Isaksdotter is married-"

"-to Monsieur Alphonse Masson," she finished, smiling.

"Good God, what a hideous name. I really must get it changed. Yes, I am sure no-one would suspect," he said. "Well, then perhaps we might consider-"

She threw her arms about his neck. "-Mon cœur, thank you! I am delighted."

"But-"

"-To think, we are to be husband and wife!- It is safe!"

"Take care," he pleaded, though his face had brightened at the words. "Someone may hear."

She scarcely seemed to notice. "Soon I shall not be Mademoiselle Daae or Froken Isaksdotter anymore. All that nonsense shall be behind me, thank Heaven. I shall have one name - Madame Masson." She paused for a moment, savoring the sound of it. "It sounds very well, don't you think?"

"I think it sounds wretched," Erik said.

"Erik!" She looked wounded. "How can you say such a thing?"

He hastened to explain. "Madame Masson is my mother."

She looked at him in surprise. He had never spoken of his mother before.

"Besides, you have such a beautiful name," he said . " 'Daae'. It is like... bells ringing. Why should you want to spoil it?"

"I would not be spoiling it-"

"-Besides, you cannot take my name. You must keep yours; this must be-"

"-Ah, but you see, I am afraid that is illegal in France, and you have just agreed-"

"-No, it is not. I looked it up."

She sighed, looking at him with great disappointment.

"I am sorry," he said. "But this must be a secret."

"Well, I shall keep my name for now - but I shall always think of myself as Madame Masson, and you cannot stop me." She smiled. "And someday your name shall be cleared and I shall be able to tell everybody who I really am."

Erik doubted this would ever be a possibility. Not wanting to dwell on the matter, he changed the subject. "There is another thing, mon rêve. Must we be married in two weeks?"

She looked at him in surprise. "I dare not keep you here one moment longer than is necessary."

He hesitated. "I agree. But... You see, I want to give you a proper ceremony. Not some shabby hole-and-corner affair-"

"-It wouldn't be-"

"-And... I confess I long to see you in a wedding-gown and veil." He swallowed, a bit ashamed of this admission. Though it was irrational, part of him still feared she would be appalled that he had dreamed of having her as his bride. "And all that would take time, I am sure."

Christine, for her part, had not looked distressed in the slightest by his disclosure; on the contrary, her face was suffused with happiness. "I want that too," her voice full of emotion. "But..."

"-You must have dreamed about this kind of thing," he pressed gently. "You have a romantic soul, I know."

"Yes, that is true. Well," she said slowly, "I have always loved the idea of a midnight ceremony, with candles all around, and music on the violin..."

"Then that is just what you shall have, Christine," he pronounced definitively.

"-But all that is infinitely less important to me than ensuring that you are safe!" she said. "I cannot have any sort of wedding without my bridegroom. You are, in fact, quite indispensable to the proceedings." She ventured a small smile.

"But this also is of the utmost importance to me," he said. "I shall be able to give you so little else in the way of normalcy; I am determined to do this one thing as it should be done. If you are to be a bride, then I am determined to see your wedding-day honored with all the splendor and ceremony the occasion demands."

She smiled. "And you deserve that as well, you know. But... you must not think that the sort of life we are going to have is something you must atone for. I know we shall find a way to have a beautiful, joyous life, both of us. Besides... I chose you freely. I am the mistress of my own actions. I knew what I was letting myself in for. You make it sound as though you had coerced me into accepting this arrangement but you know that is not the case. Or rather... I hope you know that. I chose you and I would choose you again."

For a moment he was too moved to speak. "That is precisely why I must see that you are not punished for it," he said at last, when he had regained his power of speech. "You have done me the immeasurable honor of agreeing to be my wife in spite of... in spite of everything - and I must see that it is worth your while. I cannot make my happiness by risking yours."

"It already has been worth my while," she said. "You have made me more happy than you would believe."

Suddenly she jumped.

"What is it, mon rêve?" he asked anxiously.

"I have yet another marvelous idea! Truly, the gods have inspired me tonight," she said with a laugh.

He smiled - her enthusiasm was infectious. "Oh?"

"We can have the civil ceremony here in France," she said, "and have a proper Christian ceremony once I arrive in Stockholm, or wherever it is we are going. Perhaps at a little church in the mountains? With flowers, and candles, and everything you wish."

"Well..." He thought. "I like the idea of a ceremony in the mountains," he said slowly.

"What, no objections?" she said playfully.

"No," he said at last. "No - it seems an excellent plan."

A brilliant smile lit up her face. "Thank you, mon cœur! Oh, how glad I am!"

"And I, mon rêve."

"Oh," she said suddenly. "I just remembered. Have you the ring?"

"Ah! - Yes."

"Oh, I am glad! I had feared it might be lost."

"No, fortunately I was able to keep it with me." Erik looked down as Christine took her hand from the folds of her cloak. Suddenly his face changed, transfixed by horror. "Christine!" he cried, grabbing her hand. "You are hurt!"

She glanced down and was surprised to find that the scrapes were worse than she had realized, and her hands were smeared with dirt and sticky with blood. "Oh. Goodness-"

To her shock, Erik suddenly let out a wild yell- almost a roar - and suddenly slammed his hands into the post, again and again, until the wood splintered and his knuckles were bloody. "Damn them! Damn everything!"

"Erik!" she gasped, grabbing his arm, trying to pull him away. "Don't!-"

"-I have brought you nothing but misery!" he cried. "I can't escape it even for one moment - it stalks me everywhere I go, and now I have brought it upon you! You-"

"-No!" she cried.

"You are hurt; you are bleeding - because of me!" he practically wailed.

"I wish you would not say that; it sounds dreadful, it sounds-"

"-What have I done to you?" he cried, unconscious of everything else. "What have I done?"

"-it sounds as though you beat me or something!" she finished. "This is not your fault in the slightest. You didn't push me into the stream."

"I might as well have!" he lamented. "It was my fault! - all my fault! It was my doing! My God, what is wrong with me? I am a curse for you."

"What?"

"Every time we are alone together ends with you inconsolable and in tears!"

"What utter nonsense!" she cried, finally beginning to grow angry. "I have never been 'inconsolable'. I detest that word. It implies that there is no hope- and there is always hope."

"How can there be?" he said, breathing hard, at last beginning to run out of energy, though not despair; he seemed to have an infinite supply of that. "What sort of life can there be for you with me? I made you a wretched proposal! I couldn't even manage that!"

"No! - It was perfectly beautiful. I would not exchange it for an ordinary proposal in a restaurant or at a garden-party or any of that nonsense even if I could. It was quite perfect."

He stared at her, unconvinced. "How can you possibly think that?"

"Well, just to name one example: that moon! Did you order that moon?" she giggled, waving toward the sky. "It os like something out of an advertisement-"

"-No, but I looked in the paper to see when it would be at its peak-"

"-There, you see?" she said. "All the care you took! What other man would have-"

"-That is exactly the trouble!" he cried. "I did not take care at all! A full moon! - what in God's name was I thinking?- I might as well have shined a spotlight on us! I have been care _less_!"

"But see what you have done now!" she cried impatiently. "What did you gain by all that? Now we both are hurt!"

At the recollection, she glanced down at her own hands. One of the cuts was deeper than she had realized.

"That seems fitting," Erik muttered bleakly. "It's no less than I deserve-"

"Mon amour?" Christine interrupted him. "Have you any iodine or something of the kind at home? I confess I have some anxiety of developing tetanus."*

The mention of the terrible disease brought him out of his stupor. "Oh! Forgive me! Good God. Yes...! Of course...! At once! Come, quickly!"

He swiftly flung his scarf over his face. Before she could say a word he'd taken her by the wrist, pulling her along behind him so fast she could barely keep up, and hurried them both out of the stables.

She was glad to leave them behind. She had been in constant fear that someone was going to appear and spot them. It felt better to be on the move.

In a few moments, they turned a sharp corner giving onto the Rue Scribe. After a furtive glance around, Erik hurried her through the gate and slammed it behind them.

Darkness descended around them like a curtain, but sprang away again a moment later as he struck a match.

Startled by the harsh point of light, she rubbed her eyes.

"Here," Erik said present. He took his handkerchief, made of some luxuriant black fabric, from his pocket, and rolled it so it formed a long, thin band. "As you know, I would not bring you here at all if emergency did not demand it. I hate to subject you to such an indignity, but since you are here, I am afraid I must blindfold you."

She drew back in surprise.

"Forgive me," he said. "It is only until we reach the grotto. You cannot know the way. It would be too dangerous for you."

She hesitated.

"For God's sake, there isn't time!" he cried impatiently.

She looked up at him with a mixture of annoyance and injury.

Realizing he had begun to shout, he stopped and lowered his voice. "I shall not let you fall," he said, trying to be more gentle. "Not this time," he added dejectedly.

"It is not that which I am afraid of."

"Well, what then?" he demanded in the same impatient tone.

"To name one of the many concerns which come to mind - If anyone were to happen across us, we would be hard-pressed to convince them that you were not kidnapping me."

"Well, that is an added benefit," he said ruefully.

She sighed.

"Very well," he cried suddenly, wadding the handkerchief up with furious hands and flinging it temperamentally to the ground. "But you must close your eyes - and keep them closed, mind."

In no mood to argue, she begrudgingly did as he'd demanded.

They slowly started forward.

She could feel Erik's eyes boring into her, making sure she kept hers firmly closed.

He was true to his word, though, guiding her carefully, describing the terrain in detail. She only slipped once, and at once his hands were there to steady her, solid and reassuring.

Attuned to her remaining senses, she soon noticed the air growing warmer. All at once the ground felt softer underfoot, and her nose detected an exotic, spicy scent - incense, perhaps.

"We have arrived," Erik said momentarily. "Thank you, mon rêve. I am truly sorry for putting you through such an indignity. It pains me greatly."

Christine opened her eyes and looked around eagerly. The other two times she had come here, she had been too afraid for Erik's life to make much note of anything else. Now, she was free to take in her surroundings. She was standing on a magnificent Persian carpet with a delicate, ethereal pattern of lotuses. It was exactly the sort of beautiful thing she would have expected him to own.

For a moment, a part of her almost wished they could live here. There was something peculiarly romantic about it - a palace underground.

Erik's mind, however, was far from such thoughts. Leaving her little time to reflect, he hurried her down a flight of makeshift stone steps to the main floor of the grotto, just where she and Madame Giry had brought him all those weeks ago. She let him maneuver her across the room to the fireplace and sit her down on an armchair.

"Here," he said distractedly, setting a large bowl of water down beside her. "This will be safe to wash with. It comes from the same spring where I obtain my drinking-water."

While Christine rinsed the dirt and blood off her hands, he rifled frantically through the medicine-cabinet and snatched a bottle of iodine from the middle shelf.

"Will you allow me?" he said, crouching before her and taking her hand in both of his. "I have no little experience dealing with such things, I regret to say, having been obliged to be my own physician all these years."

Christine looked at him in alarm. "No doubt. But... if it was something serious, you would go to a doctor, would you not?"

"No," he said shortly.

"But-"

He looked annoyed to be continuing the discussion. "Doctors think me a fascinating specimen."

"I am sorry," she said sadly.

"Don't be absurd."

She could see he didn't want to speak of the matter any further, so she waited in silence while he inspected the wound and dabbed a ball of cotton-wool in the iodine.

When the sharp-smelling orange fluid touched her raw skin, she couldn't hold back a hiss of pain.

Erik jerked his hand back.

"It is no matter," Christine assured him, trying not to wince.

He nodded shakily and tried again.

When the iodine touched the largest cut, she could not hold back a whimper.

Erik dropped the cotton-wool. "I am sorry," he said. What she could see of his face was looking pale. "I cannot, mon rêve. When it is only myself, that is another matter, but..."

"There is no need to apologize," she said quickly. "I am grateful."

She finished the task herself, though rather quickly and carelessly, before allowing him to bandage the cuts. Only when the task was complete did his agitation begin to ease.

"Voilà," he said at last, standing up with a deep sigh, smoothing the creases in his trousers with his hands.

Christine looked down at her hands with relief. The smooth, clean white bandages were a striking contrast to her dirty and bloodied skin before. "Thank you. That looks a great deal better."

"Yes, I suppose it it does," Erik allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. His agitation from earlier was at last beginning to ease. "Now... are you quite well, mon rêve?" He looked anxiously into her eyes.

She smiled, hoping to reassure him. "Yes. Thanks to you."

"I am very glad indeed," he said, exhaling. "However, you must see a doctor at once if you feel even the slightest hint of illness. Now come, we must return."

* * *

 ** _END OF CHAPTER 21._**

 **Thank you for reading! :)**


	22. Basso Profundo

**_Chapter 22 - Basso Profundo_**

* * *

 ** _Music suggestions: '_ Patience' by Patrick Doyle ( _Sense and Sensibility_ soundtrack); 'A Crock of Gold' by Terry Davies ( _Brideshead Revisited_ movie soundtrack); 'The Master is Painting' by Alexandre Desplat ( _Girl With a Pearl Earring_ soundtrack); 'Beau Soir' by Claude Debussy, played by Anne-Sophie Mutter (album: _The Berlin Recital);_ 'Ellen's House' by Elmer Bernstein ( _The Age of Innocence_ soundtrack); 'Coco Boy' by Alexandre Desplat ( _Coco Before Chanel_ soundtrack).**

* * *

Christine looked at him in surprise. "You have tended to my wounds as carefully as I could wish for; will you not let me help you?"

"Forgive me, but I had much rather do it myself," he said. "And you ought to return home."

"But when I return, you shall insist on accompanying me, I know-"

"-You are quite right." He smiled.

"Yes, I know. And then you would be waiting two hours or more to look after those dreadful cuts you gave yourself," she finished. "I cannot allow that."

"Mon rêve-"

"-Really; I shall not move from this spot until you look after yourself," she said. "I am resolved."

He stared at her in mute exasperation for a moment, then angrily snatched up the iodine bottle and turned his back.

"I also wondered if I might dry out my things for awhile before I go," she ventured after a moment, her voice hesitant. "I would catch cold were I to travel home like this."

After a moment's silence, he moved to uncover the fire.

"Thank you, mon cœur, but I shall do it," she said at once. "You ought to-"

"-What perfect nonsense," he said, smiling gently. "It is out of the question."

Christine sighed, but she was too tired to work up any real frustration.

She watched as he summoned a healthy blaze glowing in the stone alcove.

The sight of it restored a basic comfort and decency to the atmosphere. It was what had been missing down there in that dark cave, while they argued and fretted.

Both of them felt the difference.

"How lovely," Christine said happily, drawing close and holding out her hands.

She sidled closer to him so that their arms were touching, and for a moment they stood there contentedly together, enjoying the warmth and the rich, smoky smell of wood burning.

"Er, forgive me, but have you a robe de chambre or something of the kind I might borrow?" she asked presently.

He jumped, then peered at her in alarm. "I have, but…"

She flushed. "I know it is somewhat irregular, but my love, I am soaked to the bone - I certainly shall catch cold if I do not hang my things out. They will never get dry like this."

He shrugged philosophically. "The whole of my existence is irregular. I am in no position to condemn you for that."

"But… you have some other objection?"

He sighed heavily, but after a moment, he went to his bedroom and collected the long kaftan - black, like most of his meager wardrobe - that he used as a robe de chambre. "Yes… No. I don't see what choice you have in this instance, I suppose."

"Thank you," she said.

He mutely handed over the kaftan, but did nothing more. He was lost in his own frightened thoughts.

Christine looked at him expectantly. "Forgive me," she prodded gently at last; "Is there somewhere where… er…"

This inquiry jerked him abruptly back to the present. He felt his face grow hot when he realized what she was asking. "Oh! Yes. There is a curtained alcove over there. Just up that flight of steps. You have my word I shall not disturb you."

"I know," she said. Without realizing it, she closer to him, and, to both of their surprise, added softly, "Though I confess I would not mind if you did."

Now Erik was certain he had gone bright red. Thank Heaven for the mask.

Apparently surprised by her own boldness, Christine swiftly turned away and hurried into the alcove, drawing the curtain shut behind her.

In the silence that followed, he stood there awkwardly, at a loss for what to do with himself.

"Are you looking after those cuts on your hands?" came Christine's voice after a moment.

"Er... yes, of course," he called, suddenly pulled back to the present. He realized his mind had begun to wander, veering toward thoughts that no creature like him should ever think about anyone.

He tried frantically to control it, to not think about her in there, about what she was doing.

That in itself was a mistake. The harder he tried, the more impossible it was not to. He couldn't help imagining her. She had bewitched him.

A part of his being - the part he never obeyed, the part he could not afford to obey - burned to go in there with her, slip behind the curtain. She would not object...

That frightened him more than anything else ever had. It was the worst thing he could do. If she were caught with him…

And yet, the temptation was overpowering.

He stood up. "Christine?"

"Yes, what is it, mon cœur?"

No. No. It was absolutely necessary to think on something else.

He turned away and began savagely scrubbing at the cuts on his hands. The metallic sting of the iodine mingled with his distress, reminding him of the pain he had put Christine through. "Mon rêve, I do not wish to distress you, but I must emphasize that this kind of thing cannot happen again."

"What do you mean?" she asked. "My being down here? But I may need to come. What if you need my help?"

He sighed heavily. "As I said before, any hint that any of this - being down here, being with me, any of it - was voluntary on your part could be very bad for you - very bad indeed- and-"

"-Mon cœur, I know that, but any appearance that it was _not -_ anything that might lead someone to believe you had... coerced me..."

"-Yes, I understand; go on," he snapped, sickened by the thought.

"-that would make things far, far worse for you!" she finished.

"Not worse than they would be for you," he said darkly.

"What do you mean?" she said. "You act as though I would be condemned for your crimes if it were known that I have been associated with you."

Erik winced at the words 'your crimes'.

"But frankly I fail to see how they could blame any of it on me," Christine said.

"Even if they did not, I have another, greater fear."

"Oh?"

He gathered his courage. "I am convinced they would lock you away in some institution for daring to love a thing like me," he explained at last.

"You are a never-ending succession of delightful possibilities."

"Truly," he said. "I was not in jest when I said that before."

"Erik… Surely not." The sarcasm had quite disappeared from her tone. Her voice was dull with sadness.

"You think not?" he said, weakly and cynically.

"Even if they did lock me away - which I think unlikely in the extreme; any sensible person could see at once that I have all my wits about me, thank you - you would get me out. You would come and rescue me."

"If they dared to lay a hand on you, my God - I would hail Hell itself."

"-There, then that is settled," she said.

Before he could protest, she emerged from the alcove and descended the steps, an unwieldy pile of clothing bundled into her arms.

He could not help but feel that the matter had not been satisfactorily resolved. But when he sight of her, all aglow in the faint firelight, with the silk of the kaftan clinging to her, all other thoughts drained out of his head.

Every time he saw her it was the same - she happened to him all over again.

Even in his old robe, she looked radiant. Her beauty had elevated it to something more than it was. The black fabric set off her luminous skin in a startling chiaroscuro, like Gautier's 'Portrait of Madame X'.

"What do you think?" she laughed, looking down at herself with amusement. "I think it becomes me very well."

The sleeves were too long for her, coming down past her fingertips. He rolled them up to her wrists so they wouldn't trail near the fire. "You are radiant as ever."

"What, half-drenched, and with my hair in disaster?" she laughed, hanging her wet clothes over the screen before the fire.

"Yes, just so." He drew near to her. "I quite like you like this, with your hair 'in disaster', as you put it. However, I have one objection."

She was standing right before him now. "Oh? Indeed? And what is that?"

He kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "Black does not suit you," he murmured. "You are young and lovely and full of life."

She smiled up at him. "It is funny you should say that," she replied in a thoughtful murmur. "These days, I've found I don't want to wear black so much anymore, you know. Meg says I have been wearing more color lately."

He pulled her into his arms, quite without realizing it, and ran his fingers through her hair. "Yes, you have," he murmured into her hair. "What has effected this transformation?"

"Why... you. It is because I am happy."

He pulled away stared at her for longer than he intended to, still astounded by this thought. How had he managed to make someone like her feel so joyful and full of life? What was this strange power?

"I have you to look forward to passing through life with," she went on, "Instead of merely always looking back on all those I love who have died and... wishing that they were somehow here again. My life isn't all behind me."

He smiled, delighted. "You have done just the same for me. How much brighter the future appears now. If I can give you that comfort than I am very glad indeed."

She returned his kiss with a fuller one on the lips.

For a few moments, they were lost in the delicious silence that followed.

Christine put her arms about him and in the process hit the ring box in his pocket. The ring fell out and tumbled to the cave floor, pinging against the stone.

He swooped down frantically and snatched it up before it was lost in a crevasse.

"Oh, we have forgotten again," Christine said.

"Ah, yes - so I have."

"You promised me." Smiling, she held out her hand.

He held the ring up and looked at it as though it were a perplexing problem.

"What is it?" she asked gently, concern in her voice.

"This is not how I intended for things to be," he said at last, his voice sad. "You with bandaged hands, and cold and wet and tired... This is not at all what I wanted for you, Christine."

"I am here with the man I love," she said, "and we are safe. That is the only thing that is of any importance."

He hesitated. At last, he turned her hand over and set the ring on her palm. Voilà," he said, folding her fingers around it.

"No, you must put it on for me," she said. "It is the law." She laughed, but beneath her smile there was a current of uneasiness; something in his behavior troubled her.

"Oh," he said uneasily. Though he knew he could not tell her, this felt wrong, somehow, to him. He should not be doing this. He had no right. But at last he knelt and did as she'd asked.

"Now it is sealed," Christine said. She looked at him with bright eyes.

Erik, kneeling there looking up at her as though she were an angel, felt as though his heart might burst. He drew her hand toward him and kissed each finger, one by one.

Christine drew him to his feet and picked up the kiss where they had left off. Soon he'd forgotten his fears, forgotten everything.

When they emerged from the kiss and he came out of this happy daze, he found they'd somehow ended up nestled on a chaise longue by the fire. He scarcely had any recollection of how they had gotten there.

Worse, his right hand had slipped under the sleeve of her robe - his robe, that was - to caress her bare shoulder, and seemed to be thinking about taking it off. He practically jumped in alarm. He hadn't told it to do that.

And, what frightened him even more, Christine hadn't seemed to want him to stop whatever it was he'd been doing. In fact, she was smiling.

"We ought to get up," he said, trying to collect himself. "This is not wise."

Her smile faded. "But I don't want to," she said simply, pleadingly.

"It isn't a question of..."

"We have so few chances to simply hold one another like this. It would be cruel not to take the chance - unnatural."

"Someday we shall be able to hold one another like this without having to be afraid, without having to look over our shoulders," he said. "We must look forward to then."

"Then promise me that someday you won't always be looking over your shoulder," she said fervently.

He simply nodded.

Christine tried to stand up. But it was more difficult than she had expected. Somehow - neither of them knew quite how - they were tangled up together and found it impossible to extricate themselves.

"I cannot get away if you keep holding on to me in this outrageous manner," she said, smiling.

"I am not holding on to you," he protested, quite certain it was true. "Don't joke. You are holding on to me."

"No, I am not."

"Yes."

"Well, then, we are an impasse," she said, sounding remarkably unconcerned. She draped herself back onto the chaise over top of him, arranging her arm around his shoulders and smiling into his face. "If neither of us is responsible, I cannot see a way out of this predicament."

"No, Christine, you must-"

"Really, the struggle has exhausted me. I give up." She laid down with her head against his chest, curled up and closed her eyes like a contented cat.

"Really, you cannot…"

"I need your help," she murmured, her eyes still closed. "If you do not hold me I may catch a chill and die of pneumonia, and then Carlotta would have to sing Leïla in _The Pearl Fishers_ , and we can't have that."

He allowed himself a chuckle. "No, I certainly cannot allow that."

"But I see the peril you are so concerned about," she said.

"You understand, then?"

"Yes. Any moment now Count Almaviva shall come barging in and you shall have to leap out the window into the flowerpots," she said wryly.

This brought forth a small smile from him. He was beginning to understand that laughing was her way of assuaging her fears. "And leave you behind, Susanna?" he riposted. "Out of the question."

"Well, if it comes down to that," she said, "I should always rather have you safe, even if it means leaving me behind for a time."

There, they were back to the heart of the matter now. He was reassured. She understood the gravity of the situation. He ought to have known. He ought to have more faith in her.

He took her hand and held it out, admiring the effect of the ring on her finger, pleased in spite of himself by the sight.

He was certainly right that it would not pass unnoticed; the ruby at its center was as large as an almond. Pear-shaped, looking like a vast drop of blood, it was bordered by a delicate band of diamonds, so that it seemed to be composed of nothing but light.

"I never dreamt I would even get to touch a stone like this," Christine said in a voice of disbelief. "Wherever did you ever find it? It cannot be from the Continent. It looks like something out of Aladdin's cave."

"You are right that it is not from the West. It was mined in Burma."

"Did you find it here, or on your travels?"

"In Persia."

"Tell me."

"The shah presented it to me in exchange for my services. It was part of the crown jewels originally," he couldn't resist telling her. He didn't want her to think him boastful, but it was impossible not to want to show off for her. The truth was, he would have turned cartwheels if he thought that was what would impress her.

She turned to look at him, her eyes wide. "You are joking!"

He shook his head, enormously pleased to have impressed her so much.

She stared at him in amazement. "You must have been very important indeed!"

He shrugged, trying not to preen. "Well."

"To think…! I, wearing a ruby from the Persian crown jewels! How romantic!" She beamed.

"Do you like it, then?" he asked.

"How could I not? It is quite perfect, just like everything you have done for me." She gazed down at her hand and a dreamy look came into her eyes. Suddenly, however, it was replaced by a wicked smile. "What kind of services?"

He did not understand at first. "Architectural servi..." Then, " _Christine_!"

She laughed. "You will find I am not nearly so demure as people think."

"I never thought you were demure. You are quiet - that is not the same thing."

She smiled. "Good."

"I am glad you are pleased with it," he said after a moment. "I wasn't sure if it looked like you."

"Yes, I am pleased with it, very much. I have always loved red. Why, how thoughtful you are." She smiled. "I would not have expected a gentleman to think about such things."

"That is something you must accustom yourself to about Frenchmen," he said. "Ever since the court of Louis XVI, we have cared about clothing more than our wives do." He paused. Something about his last sentence had sounded peculiar. After a moment's concentration it came to him: He had spoken about himself as though he were just like other man. That had never happened to him before, never. Now that he had Christine, for the first time he could almost see himself as a part of mankind.

He wondered if she had noticed this change. If so, she did not remark on it.

Perhaps it seemed natural to her that he would think of himself in that way. The thought cheered him enormously.

Christine was pondering the ring, her eyes full of thought. "It is not the sort of thing I would have chosen for myself," she reflected; "Rather, it would be the sort of thing I would wish to choose but wouldn't dare to because I wouldn't think I would be able to carry it off, and then it would haunt me after I left the shop and I would realize I was right all along. Oh, listen to me!" she interjected wryly. "I am talking as though the jewelry shops on the Rue de la Paix are one of my regularly scheduled stops."

"Someday they will be," he said with certainty. "Someday they will all be making pieces in honor of La Daae, and begging you to wear them."

Her face lit up with a lovely smile. "Well, I should never like any of them so well as I like this one, because you gave it to me."

He smiled back at her, touched.

"Did it come with this setting?" she asked after a moment. "It does not look Persian to my eye, though I am no expert."

"No, no, you are quite right. A friend of mine was kind enough to take it to Cartier - discreetly - and have them put it in a setting for me."

"Cartier?" she said. "But they don't do anything quickly."

"No." He looked at her questioningly, wondering what she was getting at.

"But then you must have..." She stopped.

 _Ah._ Nothing escaped her. "Yes - as a matter of fact, I have had it waiting for weeks," he confessed all at once. "I have been wanting to propose to you for weeks- months. Sometimes it feels I have been in love with you for a million years."

She beamed. "Oh, that makes me happier, almost, than any of the rest of it."

"You aren't angry that I was telling you I was an angel whilst concealing that I... harbored feelings for you?"

"No." She gently put her hand against his cheek. "You know I have heard your reasons for doing so, and they appear to me quite sufficient."

He marveled at the strength of the comfort he drew from her soft touch. She appeared so delicate and yet within her, somehow, she harbored the power to keep all his most horrific demons at bay.

For a moment, he was lost in the gentleness in her eyes.

Then, however, her face suddenly darkened. She looked away, her brow furrowed.

"What is it?" he said frantically, desperate to keep her favor, to clear away the clouds on her face.

"I... No, it is nothing of importance," she mumbled.

"Something is troubling you."

She hesitated, not wanting to meet his eye. "Well..." She said at last. "But... Forgive me, if you have had a jewel like this for the past two years or more... you could have sold it, surely?"

"Sold it?"

"It must be worth thousands. You told me you had desperate need of money... Forgive me, my love; I do not mean to be cruel, but..."

He felt his temper flare. Was nothing he did ever going to be good enough? "And how exactly could I have sold a jewel like this without raising suspicion? Do you imagine I did not think of selling it?"

"I-"

"-I don't like stealing and blackmailing, you know! But the moment it appeared on the market the shah would know where I am - and he'd see me imprisoned at least! Did you think of that?"

"No. I didn't. I see what you mean." She looked chastened. "Forgive me."

"How many times must I prove myself?"

"You are right. I am not yet able to understand all that you have to face." Her face softened. "I suppose I must learn."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Forgive me," Erik said at last. "I... spoke harshly." The words felt awkward. He paused. "I am sure I will give you plenty of opportunities to mistrust me," he said sadly.

She laughed softly. "Don't say that. I don't intend to go looking for opportunities."

He smiled at this. "I did sell many of the smaller jewels they gave me," he said after a moment. "But the profits didn't last forever."

"Not if you spent them on things like Havana cigars," Christine pointed out. "Yes, I saw that box."

He sighed. "I had few enough enjoyments. I am not extravagant by nature, but life is different when one cannot even go up and see the sun."

She paused. "I am sorry, mon cœur."

"Sorry?"

"Wretchedly sorry, for all of it. It is miserably unfair."

"It isn't your doing," he said softly.

"But... you deserve far better than the lot life dealt out to you. You deserve everything - the whole empire of the world..."

He was too overcome to speak, his anger forgotten.

"But as I was saying before," she said gently after a moment, "Now you will have other things to occupy the time."

"Oh?" he said.

Instead of replying, she planted another kiss on his mouth.

Immediately he was lost, blissfully lost.

"Yes," he murmured when she pulled away, smiling at her in a happy daze. "Just so."

"Mmm." She turned on her side and nestled closer into his arms, resting her head against his chest.

For a moment, all was peaceful.

But then his mind, never free from anxieties for long, began to flit back over the events of that evening.

Suddenly he stiffened. "Damn!" he cried, sitting up.

Christine jumped. "My love, what is it? What has happened?"

"I forgot: I had set out a picnic for us!"

"What?"

"In the Parc. But I forgot and left it there! _Enfer_!"

"Oh, I _am_ sorry! But you must not blame yourself-"

"-There was a bottle of Veuve Clicquot," he lamented. "I had plates and glasses all laid out, and candles, and everything charming-"

"-Why, it sounds perfectly lovely!"

"It was lovely! The effect was entirely picturesque! You would have thought me a very romantic fellow indeed!"

"I think you romantic in any case," she said, running her fingers through his hair.

"Hm. Well." He looked mollified for a moment. Suddenly, however, his face hardened. "For God's sake, that damned policeman is going to find it and the fool is going to help himself- no! It is not to be borne!" He paused. "I am going to go and get it," he decided, moving to give up.

"No!" Christine cried, grabbing his arm. "It is far too dangerous."

"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation. There was a whole wheel of Camembert in there. My God, what a waste."

She didn't see that he was joking. "I don't think _you_ understand the gravity of the situation!"

Though he wouldn't admit it, he liked having her fret and fuss over him. "I shall be quite well. That clod couldn't catch me with both hands tied behind my back."

"Wait!" A look of horror flashed over Christine's face, and she clutched at his arm. "Could the bottle have had your fingerprints on it? Perhaps we had better go back and get it after all."

He raised his brows, impressed. "My fingerprints?"

"Yes, it is a way of identifying people. Modern technology can be frightening, don't you think?"

"Yes. Where do you learn these things?"

She grinned. "Meg, in this instance. She wants to be Paris' first lady-detective."

He smiled. "I have no doubt that girl could succeed in that ambition, if she so chose - but I have the strongest possible doubts that she would be the first. In any case, you should make a better detective than her. With your sweetness and refinement, no-one would ever suspect you."

"Thank you. But what about the bottle?" she asked fretfully.

He sighed. "I wore gloves. They cannot connect it back to me - or you, for that matter."

"Thank Heaven." She relaxed.

"I would not be so careless. I have been in this business a long time, you forget."

"This business?"

"Existing illicitly. _Breathing_ illicitly. Everyone would rather imagine I do not exist - it is less troubling - and I intend to make it as easy for them as possible to continue in that happy state. And thus-" he waved a hand in the air- "they do not have my fingerprints on file, and I intend for that happy state of affairs to continue."

"Not everyone," Christine said.

He looked at her blankly. "What?"

"Not everyone would rather you do not exist." Her voice was suddenly full of conviction.

"Thank you, mon rêve. I know it."

"Then act as though you do!" she cried, startling him with her sudden anger.

"Yes. Yes, of course. Forgive me."

"Thank you," she said in a softer voice, blinking back tears.

He squeezed her hand gently.

She looked up and fixed him in her gaze. "No more thefts," she reminded him warningly.

He shrugged. "In any case, soon I shall be gone from here."

"Yes, I suppose so." She paused. "But only if you are not captured tonight. My love, please don't go back, I beg you."

"I shall stay away from there if that is really what you wish," he gave in at last, looking at her tenderly.

"Thank you, my love. Oh, thank you. I could never be easy if I did not know you were being careful with yourself." She planted a brief kiss on his lips, which he gladly reciprocated, before falling silent.

He gazed down her with naked adoration. She closed her eyes and rested her head sleepily against his shoulder.

Suddenly, a little spurt of laughter escaped her lips. She opened her eyes, pulled away and looked at him, trying to stifle a grin.

"What?" he said, smiling, her mirth already beginning to infect him.

"Well… it is just… Imagine, tomorrow morning someone is going to stumble across a picnic-basket sitting there all by itself in the park-" She hid a giggle- "as though it wandered there on its own," she said, and finally burst laughter. "They shall have no idea where it came from... Oh dear! It is too much!" She doubled over, holding her sides.

His frustration could not last amid the lovely sound of her laughter. It soon evaporated. "A picnic hamper," he said, joining in her mirth. "A whole hamper. And a picnic blanket. With wine-glasses and plates and all. I had everything set up for us."

Christine tried to comport herself for a moment. "Oh, my dear, I _am_ sorry!" she managed. "All the trouble you went to, for nothing!" She paused, struggling as her smile began trying to reassert herself. "But... but... that is even better, you must admit!" she cried, giving in once more. "A picnic-blanket, indeed! As though it set itself up!"

"As though it were set up by a ghost," Erik said.

Soon the sound of their laughter was ringing around the cave, loud and long, but no-one heard it except for themselves and the rats.

They were secure here, for now, and for a few brief moments the two of them managed to forget their troubles.

They sat at the eye of a storm, it was true, but the eye of a storm was safe.

They were together, and as long as they had these moments where they could laugh like this, that was enough.

* * *

 _End of Chapter 22. Thank you so, so much for reading! Thank you Chryselis, missgalindaa, Pinkdynamite, Tangosalsa, WrappedinRed29, Charlotte, and Angel of Iowa for your lovely reviews and input - I appreciate your input so much! I'm so thrilled that we share a love for the beautiful world of Phantom._


	23. Misterioso

**_Chapter 23_**

* * *

 ** _Music for this chapter:_ 'Traumerei' by Robert Schumann; 'Au Fond du Temple Saint' played by Livia Sohn; 'Pur Ti Miro' by Monteverdi.**

* * *

They lapsed into a companionable silence.

"Will you play something for me?" she murmured after a few minutes.

He was torn between delight at the thought of playing for her and reluctance to stop holding her. But he could never refuse any request of hers. "What should you like to hear, Christine?"

"Whatever you choose."

"Hmm." He went to where he'd left his violin resting on the piano.

Her face brightened with excitement when she saw it. "The violin is my favorite."

He smiled.

Closing his eyes, he let his hands play the first thing that came to them, Schumann's ' _Traumerei'. '_ Dreaming'. Then he turned to _The Pearl Fishers,_ improvising an arrangement for violin of _Au Fond du Temple Saint,_ one of its most beautiful duets. When that was over he launched into Monteverdi's _Pur Ti Miro._

" _I adore you, I embrace you,"_ Christine said, reciting the song's lyrics. " _I desire you, I enchain you."_

Erik stopped. "What? Forgive me, mon rêve - I did not mean... I wasn't thinking... I did not intend to imply..."

She merely smiled and went on. _"No more grieving..."_

Put at ease again by the gentleness in her expression, he drew close to her. " _No more sorrow,"_ he joined in again at last, their voices blending. _"O my dearest, O my beloved,_ _I am yours - O my love, tell me so."_

She put a finger to his lips and continued on. _"Y_ _ou are mine,_ _mine alone, O my love._ _Feel my heart."_ She rested his hand against her breastbone, and indeed, he could feel her heart fluttering beneath his fingertips. " _See my love,"_ she finished, bending and kissing his wrist. "Thank you, mon cœur. That was beautiful."

"I am delighted that it pleased you," he managed, suddenly having difficulty finding his voice. He loved the satiny smoothness of her skin. God, he adored every inch of her. But he was alarmed by the intense desire it sent coursing through him. The thought of her knowing how wildly, how desperately he wanted her frightened him more than anything else. He let his hand there for as long as he could bear it, but soon found he had to pull it away. As an excuse, he transferred it to his violin, pretending to be adjusting one of the strings. "Are there any other pieces you should like to hear?" He looked up at her shyly.

"I want to hear you play every song in the world." She smiled. "But I should not like for you to hurt your violin. You must be the judge. The cold air cannot be good for it. My father would slap you if he saw this," she teased.

"I think he would strangle me first for falling in love with his daughter."

"No. He would have been so very glad that I am to marry you." Her eyes suddenly grew distant. She looked happy and sad at the same time. "He would have liked you very much," she went on in a soft, reflective voice. "I am sorry indeed you shall never meet. The two men I love." She had dreamt of their meeting many times, in fact.

But it was impossible, when one of them was gone forever.

She loved two ghosts.

"And I am sorry for you," Erik said. He swallowed, hoping she wouldn't notice the omission in his reply. Even if Christine was right that they were the sort of people who would have gotten along, he was sure Isak Daae wouldn't have wanted him to marry his daughter. No doubt he was a good and kind man, but no father would want his only child to be bound to a deformed wretch for the rest of her life. It wasn't natural.

If Christine had noticed his lack of enthusiasm, she did not remark on it. Instead, she simply said, "Thank you."

"But of course, mon rêve," he said softly. "Well."

"But it is not only me who has known loss," she said. "You were not fortunate in your parents, it seems."

"Ah. Well." There was a long silence. "You needn't worry about my violin," he said at last. "It is a miserable piece of garbage. It doesn't deserve to be coddled."

She could see he did not want to linger on the subject of his parents. "You played so beautifully I did not notice."

"Hmph. You are losing your ear," he said, smiling wryly.

Truth to be told, however, the cold air blowing in off the lake was making his hands stiff and sore, and he didn't like the thought of what it might be doing to his violin. He finished the piece, so as not to leave the unpleasantness of an unresolved melody rattling around in their restless, unquiet, troubled minds - how alike they were beneath the surface - and then let it rest.

Having put the miserable excuse for a violin away, he sat down beside her once more, settling on the end of the chaise. She pulled her feet up to make room for him and covered his hand with hers as he gazed off into the distance.

For a moment he almost felt like they had a normal life. The crackle of the fire drowned out the more unpleasant noises that usually filled the grotto - the cold, vaguely menacing slosh of the chilly green lake water against the shore, and whatever sounds echoed in caves in the darkness, like the voices of the dead.

Erik had almost gone mad once or twice, alone there in the dark, thinking they were speaking to him, or then again footsteps coming for him at last...

But now all that was different. Now there was Christine. She kept all that at bay.

He looked down at her, thinking he would murmur something into her ear, but he found her eyes had fallen closed. He was so startled that for a moment he feared she'd fallen ill. But no, there was a soft smile on her lips, and a healthy glow suffused her sweet, gentle face.

He could scarcely believe it was possible that she would fall asleep beside him. That any woman - any human being, in fact - could trust him enough that she would let down her guard so completely around him.

The notion was so alien to him, seemed so unnatural, almost, that his first instinct was to wake her.

But she'd been so tired, so cold and afraid, and this would at last give her at least a few moments' respite from that.

He let her sleep. He allowed himself that indulgence.

But only, he quickly told himself, until her things had dried.

His entire life was bounded by limits like that, especially when it came to her.

He could lose himself in music, but only so much; he always needed to be able to hear if there were footsteps approaching.

He could kiss Christine, touch her, hold her, but only within limits, never for as long as he liked. He could promise her happiness but always when he did, his mind caught on a snag of doubt, wondering if he was lying to her when he acted as though he could guarantee her anything.

Only so much joy, only a drop here and there.

With her, it was enough, for now, at least. He would rather have this strange, twilight existence with her than have everything with anyone else.

But he wanted her to have joy unconfined, without limits. Perfect joy, perfect love, perfect hope.

Would that day ever come? And even if it did, could he be a part of it? Was there a place for him in that?

Well, there was one thing he knew for certain. If he fit into the world anywhere, it was by her side. If there was a place and a purpose for him, this was it.

His eyes went to her clothes hanging by the fire. He knew he should be willing them to dry faster but he found himself selfishly wishing the opposite, that they would take as long as possible. He felt personally insulted by every drop of water that fell from the hem of her dress, as though each one was reminding him she had to leave, that he shouldn't have her with him, and certainly shouldn't have been holding her like he was.

He let a few minutes go by, savoring the warmth of her, her weight on him. The time seemed to evaporate like water on a hot stove.

At last he reached down and gently ran a hand along her shoulder.

She blinked awake and smiled up into his face. He adored her sleepy expression.

"Hmm? Did I fall asleep?" she asked in a groggy voice.

He kissed her cheek. "Yes, but only for a few minutes."

"Oh. Good." She closed her eyes and pulled him down so he was lying beside her. "Plenty of time, then. Mmm."

"I fear we must return," he said, pulling away from her.

"No." The sound was long and drawn-out. Eyes still closed, she stuck out a hand, found a soft velvet blanket draped over the chaise, and tugged it toward her. It responded by sliding off the armrest and onto the floor.

With the greatest reluctance, Erik stood and went to the fireplace. "I think your things are dry enough now."

"Oh, that is unfortunate." She got up, but only because he had been her source of warmth. She tried to put her arms around him, but he moved away, hovering anxiously. At last she reached out reluctantly for her coat. "Ah," she said, "It is drier than I had expected. But... oh, dear, my stockings have not had the same success. Well, I shall put the rest on. I can leave these here for the time being."

"Is that wise?" Erik said uneasily.

"I can collect them later. It gives me an excuse to see you." She smiled and, bundling the rest of her clothes into her arms, ducked back behind the curtain.

In a few minutes, she was ready to depart.

He felt bereft as he led her back through his labyrinth of tunnels to the surface. He knew he couldn't see her again soon. It wasn't safe. But the thought of being parted from her was like ripping away a part of himself. The darkness was darker without her, the cave somehow colder.

In the cab, she rested her head on his shoulder. The ride to her neighborhood passed in relative silence. He was accustomed to going without rest - sometimes he did not sleep for fourteen days and nights together, caught up in the furor of creation - but all at once he was conscious of an overwhelming weariness, a weariness of the soul. The events of this night had drained him.

The cab tilted back as it began to climb up the steep streets of Montmartre. Her street was poorly-lit, and it wasn't hard for Erik to find a shadow to hide in until the cabbie and his tired little horse had driven away.

When they were gone, Christine - her hood pulled up so no-one would see her - pulled him into her arms for a lingering kiss good-bye. No-one was watching; no-one passed by, and for a few moments, he almost forgot to be afraid. When he caught sight of the ring sparkling on her lovely hand, his happiness from earlier that evening flickered to life again.

All too soon, whoever, the indefinable sense of urgency that stalked them everywhere they went caught up to him again. Christine drew away and whispered that she had to go. He nodded mutely, but kept holding onto her hand for as long as possible, until her arm was stretched out to its full length and he was at last obliged to let go of the tips of her fingers.

As he watched her walk away, he wanted to cry out for her to come back to him, take her somewhere far away, never let her go again. Already the world seemed wider and emptier, his place in it more precarious. The thought of being without her made the days ahead seem to stretch out in front of him like an interminable, cold ocean.

He stared at the spot where she had disappeared into her building. Someday, he thought dejectedly, she would disappear from his life just like she had melted into the shadows just now.

And all the better for her.

A few moments went by, and finally he saw a light flicker to life in the window she had pointed out to him as her own. He could imagine her there- getting ready for bed, flinging her coat aside in that careless way she had, letting down her beautiful hair- though she was too far away to see. There she was, out of his reach, as always, never able to stay within his grasp for more than a brief instant.

He drank in the light for a moment, yearning for her as never before, before reluctantly turning to go and plunging back into the night.

* * *

One day after a few weeks had gone by, instead of one of Erik's usual long letters, she found a note that simply said _If you visit_ _the Pleyel concert hall at Number 22 Rue Rochechouart* at five-thirty in the evening on November the 17th, you shall hear something that may be of interest to you._

 _"In your light, I have learned how to love. In your beauty, how to create music. You dance in my heart where no one can see you."*_

As usual, he had not signed it.

She smiled, equally intrigued and amused by Erik's flair for the dramatic. It was like something straight out of an Alexandre Dumas novel.

What could this mean? He had recommended concerts - which, she assumed, was what this must be too - to her before, as a supplement to her musical education, but he'd never been so opaque about it. He'd always told her what the programme consisted of, who the musicians and composers were. He'd certainly never trailed tantalizing, mysterious lines like "you shall hear something that may be of interest to you".

As she readied herself to go on the appointed evening, she felt torn between interest and fear. Was he intending to come? The thought alarmed her.

Skulking about the once-proud Opéra Populaire and making himself a flea in the ear of buffoons who didn't have a clue what they were doing was one thing. Trying that sort of thing on at Pleyel Hall, on the other hand, would be dangerous in the extreme. It was small, but that didn't comfort her. Quite the contrary, its size was merely an indicator of how exclusive and selective it was. Its leadership were nothing like Andre and Firmin. Renowned for their artistic judgment and business acumen, they were shrewd, well-connected and powerful.

But no, she told herself, Erik wouldn't try anything. He was bold and impertinent, yes - if impertinence could be considered the right word for the behavior of a great genius toward men who were in every way his inferiors, forced to content himself with playing pranks on them like a little boy when he should rightfully have ruled over all of them. But he wasn't foolhardy. And she knew he was not mad, whatever people might say about him. In many ways, he was the sanest man she had ever known.

He wouldn't be incautious enough to leave the safety of the opera house and come out among the public. Not now that he had her to think of. He'd promised her he would be careful for her sake, and so far he'd given her no reason to believe he would ever break that promise. He would never be careless where his Christine was concerned. She had to believe that.

Well, one thing was for certain - she had to go or her curiosity would drive her mad.

And that was just as Erik had, no doubt, intended it.

* * *

To Christine's surprise, when she mentioned in passing that she was going to a concert that evening, Meg, who normally regarded music as merely something to dance to, invited herself along. Christine couldn't think of an excuse to keep her from coming with her. Moreover, whether it was right or not, she didn't want to.

She and Erik had agreed it was better not to tell Meg of their relationship - it was safer for her to know as little about his dealings as possible. And yet she could not bear to lie to her oldest friend, and so she had been obliged to simply tell Meg they had agreed to continue their lessons and leave it at that. This arrangement left Meg hopelessly bewildered and Christine resorting to ever more complicated means of avoiding her questions. Eventually Meg had given up, and since they now were both obliged to artificially avoid the subject, their conversations had grown rather awkward and stilted. It was a state of affairs Christine would have given almost anything to reverse.

"I had not expected you would want to come along," she said, smiling at her as they meandered toward Rue Rochechouart.

"Well, it's almost impossible to get you alone anymore." Though Meg didn't say it, both of them knew she was referring to Christine's newfound fame.

Their friendship was strong enough, however, that Christine knew there wasn't any resentment. It was merely an unfortunate inconvenience, and that was all.

"I am sorry," she said.

"It isn't your fault." Meg squeezed her hand. "I am just glad I could come along with you to this."

Christine smiled. "So am I."

"Er... What is it we're going to, anyway?" Meg said, which made Christine laugh. "And will there be champagne?"

"I imagine there will," Christine said. "As to what in particular is on the programme - I don't know, precisely."

Meg blinked. "You don't know what it is?"

"No," Christine said awkwardly. "I believe it is a concert of some variety."

"Didn't you try to find out?"

Christine gave up trying to avoid mentioning Erik. "My instructor told me he thought it would be of interest to me-"

"-I might have known. Whatever happened with him? Are you still having lessons?"

"Yes."

Meg gave her an uncertain look. "I'm not sure I like this. There is something... odd about it, don't you think?"

"No. Why should you say that?"

"The things he does do not make any sense. What does he want from you, Christine? He bewilders me. I do not understand him."

Sadness tugged at Christine's heart. "But I do," she said quietly, looking away.

A silence settled over them, but it didn't fit right. Meg, not one to tolerate such things, impatiently shrugged it off.

"Dear," she said abruptly, catching Christine's eye in a direct gaze, "Is there... anything you want to tell me?"

"Pardon?" Christine said, startled.

"I don't mean to pry, but you seem... as though something has been weighing on you," Meg said. "You seem frightened, sometimes."

"You are the sister I never had," Christine said. "You have every right to pry. In fact, I am grateful for it." She hesitated. "As a matter of fact, yes, there is something I want to tell you," she said at last, looking down at the paving stones beneath their feet. The words came out quickly, in a rush. She knew she probably ought not even to have ventured this much, but she wasn't willing to risk weakening their friendship.

"Oh?" Meg said. She looked eager to believe whatever explanation Christine had to offer for her behavior, anything that would let them get over this awkwardness and back to the way things had been before.

"But... I cannot tell it to you," Christine said. "Not now. I shall be able to someday, but not yet. Do you see? Is that... can you accept that for now?"

"Yes." Meg paused. "There's nothing... frightening you?"

"No," Christine said. "It is nothing like that. Thank you. It is a good thing. But it is... rather significant. And I confess I am... concerned for a... friend of mine."

"Well, now I understand everything. Thank Heaven that is all sorted out," Meg said dryly.

Christine smiled sadly. "I know I am not being clear. I will tell you more when I can, you have my word."

"Very well," Meg said. "You must decide when you tell me."

"Thank you," Christine said gratefully. Though the conversation had done little to clarify anything, somehow she felt that the air between them was clearer now, that they were seeing each other eye to eye again.

For a few moments, they walked in companionable silence, enjoying the brisk air and silvery light of a Paris afternoon in November.

Suddenly recalling something Meg had said earlier, Christine asked, "Was there something you wished to talk about with me?"

"Oh. Why... as a matter of fact, yes," Meg said, recollecting. She gave a nervous giggle, something she was not in the habit of doing. "Well. You are not the only one who has secrets, as it happens."

"Oh?" Christine said.

"Yes. Do you remember the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac?"

"Yes," Christine said immediately. The Baron was the most recent in Meg's long line of admirers.

Christine had quickly come to feel that there was something different about him than the others. He was as handsome and agreeable as Philippe the noodle-brained Marquis, but considerably more intelligent. Moreover, there seemed to be a certain basic decency about him. Wherever they went together, he went out of his way to make sure she was enjoying herself.

He had seemed interested in getting to know Christine - this before she was famous - and not merely to size her up as a possibility for a menage à trois, as the rest of Meg's lovers invariably seemed to do when they saw her. Parisians.

He was polite and courteous - a gentleman, to borrow a word from the English.

Christine smiled, inviting Meg to go on.

"Well," Meg said. She stopped and sucked in her breath. "Oh, Good Lord. Christine... how do you know when you are in love?"

Christine jumped. Meg, in love? She hesitated. "Well... I... I'm not sure I have ever been in love," she said, though it cost her a great deal.

"Of course you have."

Christine sighed. "I have told everyone, the Vicomte is not-"

"-Not Monsieur le Vicomte." Meg almost rolled her eyes. "Your mysterious... Erik-or-Alphonse-or-whatever-his-name-is. Weren't you in love with him? For a time, at least."

 _Really, there's no fooling Meg._ Christine hesitated. "Very well," she said at last. "Yes." She could not stop herself from adding, "As a matter of fact, I still am."

"Oh," Meg said. But, seeing that Christine did not want to elaborate, she had the good grace not to demand an explanation. "I thought as much," she said simply, and squeezed Christine's hand.

They walked for a few paces in silence.

Eventually Meg ventured, "Would you mind telling me... how did you know?"

"Well, I can... if things were different, I, er, _could_ imagine... passing through the rest of my life with him."

Meg stopped short. She looked as though she'd swallowed something sour while reading an appalling piece of news in the paper at the same time. "Oh, Good Lord, I have it," she said, suddenly sounding sixty years older.

"You are in love with him?" Christine said, grabbing Meg's hands eagerly in hers.

"So it would seem," Meg said in a voice more like her usual one, scowling darkly. "Just throw me in a ditch and leave me to die."

Christine beamed. Most of her other friends were constantly declaring that they were in love, and falling out of it a week later, but Meg had never once said those words. If she thought she was in love, then she was. "Meg, this is-"

"This is a catastrophe!" Meg cried.

"No, it is wonderful!" Christine said. She was so happy in love that she wanted everybody else to be, too. "He is a good man, Meg. I can tell. And you have seemed happier recently, you know."

"Yes, yes." Meg waved her hand impatiently. "That's always the first step - you feel feverish and giddy. But then you really get it badly. Charming, Meggo. What a mess you have gotten yourself into." She picked up her pace, as though she could walk it off.

"Why is it 'a mess'?" Christine said, scurrying to keep up with her.

"It skews the field in his advantage. If he finds out, I'll never get him to agree to anything. I can't afford to be taken advantage of."

"Skews the field?" Christine cried incredulously. "What language are you speaking? This isn't sport we are talking of."

"Yes, but you know how it is for us," Meg said. "If a man finds out you love him, he'll know he can make you do whatever he wants."

"I suspect perhaps it is a little more complicated than that."

"Hm. Perhaps you're right. Maybe I'm not mad after all."

"Of course you are not."

"You see, I don't know what will happen in the future, but I want to be with him now, whatever may happen," Meg said.

"I understand entirely," Christine said. _Better than you think,_ she added silently. Involuntarily, she touched the ring hidden under her dress.

"Is that so very foolish of me, to think like that for once in my life?" Meg said.

"No, of course not."

"I have always tried to be practical, but must one always think practically?"

"No, indeed," Christine said.

"Just because we are women doesn't mean we should always have to think everything is a trap."

"I quite agree!" Christine cried.

"You don't think I'm mad?" Meg asked again as they reached their stop.

"For the fiftieth time - no, not at all."

"And... you won't tell anyone about this?" Meg whispered.

"Never," Christine assured her. Your secret is safe with me for as long as I live." She paused. "Well. What do you think _you_ are going to do?"

At that moment, however, their omnibus pulled up, and they were forced to change the subject of their conversation to the weather.

Soon afterward, Christine found herself standing before the grand façade of Pleyel Hall.

* * *

 **End of Chapter 23.**

 **Thank you so much to WrappedinRed29, Charlotte, scarletvixenwthorns, AngelofIowa, TangoSalsa, PinkDynamite, missgalindaa, Chryselis, and FanFantome for your reviews and support! It means so much more to me than I can express!**

 **Please feel free to comment, it really does help with inspiration!**

* * *

 **Sorry, I couldn't resist throwing in a stockings reference. ;)**

 *** I am extremely proud of myself for learning to spell this. However, do not attempt to pronounce it if you are not French. Serious injury may result.**

 ***Rumi again. The original quote says "poetry", not music. But music can be a form of poetry, so close enough. :)**


	24. Trionfale

**Chapter 24**

* * *

Christine stopped. Though she could not imagine why, she was suddenly possessed by a feeling that whatever awaited them inside was going to change her whole existence.

But then Meg had tugged at her arm and pulled her forward with a cheerful "Come along, ducky!", and the impression faded away, leaving her feeling amused at her own reservations.

It was music, after all. Music was her guardian angel. It loved and protected her, soothed her heartaches, rejoiced with her in her triumphs. What reason had one to fear one's guardian angel?

Inside, after relieving themselves of their coats, they found a concierge near the entrance handing out neatly folded programs.

"It's about time we find out what's going on," Meg said wryly, snatching up two. Christine reached out for one, but Meg playfully pulled it away. " 'The first concert of the Societé Nationale de Musique'," she read, holding one dramatically out in front of her and peering at the richly filigreed text on the elegant pale-green paper. " 'For the promotion of French composers'. And their motto is _Ars Gallica_ , whatever that means - something morbid, no doubt."

"French art," Christine supplied helpfully. "Very morbid indeed."

Meg stuck out her tongue at her. The two passed under an elaborate arched entrance and found themselves in a vast, imposing room, decorated in shades of pigeon blue with lavish gold mouldings. It was much longer than it was wide, which gave it dimensions vaguely reminiscent of a church, though the rows of immense, expensive mirrors that ran down either side made it feel as though it went on forever in both directions. The sculptural gold candelabras mounted to the walls filled the place with light, adding to the overwhelming impression of size and grandeur. Inside, a crowd was beginning to gather. Two hundred or so velvet-padded chairs were set up facing an altar-like stage, and about half of them were already filled.

With a sudden feeling of foreboding, Christine looked up and saw a massive chandelier hanging suspended from the middle of the arched ceiling. Her mind was besieged with a horrible image of Erik slicing through the chains that held it suspended there, and sending it crashing it down on the heads of the unsuspecting public, laughing maniacally all the while. She reprimanded herself for even thinking such a thing. Why on earth would she imagine that he would do anything of the kind? He wasn't mad. Eccentric, yes, but not mad.

To distract herself from the muddle of her thoughts, she began to scan the crowd. She saw a few people she had met once or twice at the Opéra - composers, patrons, and the like - but for some reason she felt it would be better not to be recognized. She wanted to observe this anonymously.

By silent agreement, she and Meg chose seats near the back. The room filled and eventually, by some invisible signal, everyone seemed to agree that it was time to begin, and fell silent. At the front, a distinguished-looking dark-haired man climbed to the stage, to polite applause.

"Bon soirée, Mesdames, Messieurs," he said, raising his hands for silence. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Romaine Bussine. As co-president and founder of the Societé Nationale de Musique, I have the honor to welcome you to this, our first public concert. As you are perhaps aware, my esteemed colleague Monsieur Charles-Camille Saint-Saëns and I founded the Societé in the interest of furthering the cause of French music. Thanks to the generosity of our supporters, we have been able to engage some of the most esteemed performers in the world." There was a sprinkling of applause. "The enterprise we are most excited for was a contest to discover new talent," he went on. "Tonight, we announce the winners of this contest. The grand prize was a scholarship to study composition privately with some of the finest instructors at the Académie de Beaux-Arts for six months, and a small grant to further the composer's professional endeavors."

Christine could not help but think of Erik. This was just the sort of contest his music would be suited to. But when she'd asked him once if he'd tried to have his work published, he'd lashed out at her in a fury. _Why should I share my precious music with a world that has given me nothing?_ he'd raged. _That has scorned me, mocked me, tortured me? Should it give comfort to those who have oppressed me? I wish to share it with only you, and that is all. You ought to be satisfied with that, I think! It is singularly presumptuous of you to tell me what I ought to do with my own music! No, the world will never see it. When I die, I will take into my coffin with me and it will rot, alone and forgotten, like I will!_

Christine winced at the memory. She hadn't mentioned the idea to him since. He had been so set against it that she'd known it would do no good. It could only upset him. Besides, now that she had learned of his past, now that she knew what he had endured over the years, she didn't expect him to want to submit his soul, neatly pressed between the leaves of a folder, for their perusal. She'd only regretted that she had said anything in the first place.

Suddenly, music blossomed out from the stage, breaking gently into her thoughts. Evidently Bussine had announced one of the runners-up; two young men were now playing a pleasant duet with piano and violin onstage. They were followed by several others, awarded prizes of gradually increasing value. At last they neared the end.

"Second prize," president Bussine announced, "goes to Monsieur Amédée Dupont, from Marseille, who has achieved this honor at the impressive age of nineteen. Monsieur Dupont will play his composition for us himself." A pale young man with immense, childlike blue eyes stood up, beaming.

Meg had to stop herself from laughing out loud at the sight of him. "Bless that dear lad," she muttered. "He looks like Maman still irons his underpants for him. And someone should tell his parents that no-one names their poor child Amédée anymore."

Christine giggled and shushed her at the same time.

As soon as the young man took his seat at the piano, however, he seemed to become a different person - older, stronger, with more presence, like a king on his throne who knew he was precisely where he ought to be. He played an accomplished, expertly structured piece that reminded Christine a little of some of Mozart's early works. The applause afterwords was enthusiastic.

"What do you say now?" Christine said wryly, grinning at her.

"Hmph."

Christine, smiling, turned her eyes back to the stage.

"The grand prize goes to a work by an artist unknown to us before, a man of astonishing talent and singular clarity of vision," Bussine said with a look of obvious excitement. "We are delighted to award this much-deserved honor to Monsieur Joseph Masson of Rouen."

It didn't make an impression on Christine at first. For a moment, she simply clapped politely. Then came Meg's elbow jutting hard into her ribs. Suddenly it caught up to her. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she had to stifle a gasp of happy surprise. A lady in the next seat gave her a bewildered look, and she quickly tried to compose herself, sitting back and folding her hands in her lap, though her mind was whirling.

Was it really him? Had he really entered? After all he had said? Was he here? Her gaze flitted around the room with a new intensity, torn between exhilaration at the thought of seeing him and fear at the idea of his being exposed.

"-Whose health unhappily prevents his being present today," she heard Bussine explain. Ah. Well, that was safer. She sat back, equally disappointed and relieved.

"That's... him, isn't it?" Meg said to her.

"Yes." Christine paused. "Well, at least... I think so." It must be, surely.

"Since Monsieur Masson is unable to be present," said Bussine, "Monsieur Saint-Saëns has agreed to play his winning composition, Sonata for a Mademoiselle, in his absence."

Christine froze in amazement. _His music being played by Saint-Saëns!_

At a gesture from Bussine, one of the greatest pianists in France stood up into the room. A reverent hush fell as Saint-Saëns took his seat at the piano and began to play. In just a few notes, all Christine's doubts were resolved. It was assuredly Erik's work. She would know it anywhere.

Saint-Saëns' playing did not have as much emotion as Erik's would have. It was more careful, more technical, one might say more polished. But there was no mistaking that music. The melody flowed like liquid silver. It sang of wonders beyond anything they could ask for or imagine. As if the sheer burning beauty of it were not enough, there were modulations Erik knew she liked, snatches of harmony that alluded to some of her other favorite pieces. All too soon it was tumbling toward its conclusion. She hoped it would not resolve, hoped it would veer away from the tonic and delight them all a little longer, but eventually, of course, it had to end, and it did.

What had changed? she wondered. He would never have done this before. What had emboldened him?

All too soon the last soft chords died tenderly away, leaving them all a little sadder and a great deal wiser.

"Yes," she whispered with stars in her eyes, as she blinked herself back to the present, her heart aching with joy and pride and triumph. "It's him."

How could this be? Christine thought. What had made him more generous, more forgiving to the world?

Applause thundered through the room, shaking her out of her thoughts. Saint-Saëns stood up and bowed humbly, smiling the rare, radiant smile that can only be found on the face of a fully satisfied artist. "Mesdames et Messieurs, it has been a privilege to introduce this work to you," he said. "Seldom has a piece been such a joy to play. I do not use this word lightly, but I do not think anyone will disagree with me when I declare that today you have all witnessed the discovery of a genius."

Tears spilled from Christine's eyes. She didn't see the suspicious glance Meg cast in her direction.

Bussine stood up besides Saint-Saëns. "This mysterious 'Mademoiselle' is a fortunate young lady indeed." Christine let her laughter join with the audience's, though her mirth came from quite a different cause than theirs.

 _If only you knew!_ she wanted to shout. _I am the luckiest woman in the world._

"Regrettably," Bussine went on, "Monsieur Masson is unable to accept the scholarship to study at the Académie des Beaux-Arts for reasons pertaining to his health, so that opportunity will be awarded instead to Monsieur Dupont. We offer him our congratulations."

Christine smiled. It wasn't just because of Erik's 'health'. Even if he had been free to go, he would never stand for anyone else telling him how to write his music.

"The grand-prize check for five thousand francs has been mailed to Monsieur Masson's postbox," Bussine went on. "Copies of his sonata and the other winning compositions will be available for purchase beginning this week."

Christine gasped. Five thousand francs! It was more than enough to live on. And that wasn't including whatever she would earn. Not to mention, publishing his music was sure to bring in more. She began to see a future for them, however dimly. This had not all been merely some foolish fantasy. It was possible that they really might be able to make a life together. She had not been mad to put her faith in him, in his gifts, in the magic of his music. This had to be a step closer to a normal life for them. A less uncertain, perilous existence.

This hopeful thought carried her through the next few minutes, until Bussine thanked them for coming and informed that a champagne reception would follow. The audience broke up into mingling, amiably chattering clumps. Christine waited and drifted for the next hour or so, not bothered in the slightest by the delay, passed the time by drinking every glass of champagne she could get her hands on, with no discernible effect on her sobriety, and dexterously balancing flirting with five or six good-looking young musicians at the same time. Among them, Christine noticed with a laugh, was young Amedée Dupont, from whose expression one might have been forgiven for thinking that Meg was the first woman he had ever seen. Eventually, however, the crowd drained away, bound for Paris' famous nightlife.

Christine knew now that Erik had not come. Or at least, he had not shown himself. He had been sensible. She hated herself for being disappointed. She should want him to be safe. And yet, he should have been here celebrating his victory, being toasted by Paris' elite. Most of all, he should have been by the side of the woman he was going to marry. Instead he was banished underground, cold and alone with no company but the rats and his poor little cat. Her heart twisted up with the unfairness of it. _No_. She forced herself to stop thinking in that vein. At least his genius was being recognized, she reminded herself. She hoped the world would justify the faith he had shown it, in entrusting society with a glimpse of his extraordinary soul. And there was much to be thankful for, because so far, remarkably, it had.

As soon as the winner of the contest was announced, Christine had been determined to return to the Opéra afterwards and look for Erik. She had been wondering how she would get away without rousing Meg's suspicions. As they left the concert hall, however, she discovered that she needn't have worried. The Baron had invited Meg to a party that evening and she had to hurry home to change. Even better, thoughts over what to wear so filled her thoughts that she forgot to make her usual inquires about what Christine was planning to do with herself for the evening. They parted amicably at the omnibus stop, freeing Christine to return to the Opéra unobserved.

Inside, she tore through the empty corridors toward her practice room, barely able to stop herself from breaking into a run. She had no proof that Erik would be anywhere in the vicinity, but she hoped he might be lingering somewhere nearby. She was burning to see him. Upon reaching her practice-room, she hurriedly shut the door, and after seeing that it was empty - though why anyone would be in this cramped little room she could not imagine - locked the new lock Erik had insisted she have installed. Sitting on the piano-bench, she reached a hand toward the little lamp on her desk, but then changed her mind and pulled it away again. She liked sitting in the dark like this. It was comforting, somehow. It felt safe, like a mantle drawn around her for protection. She was beginning to understand why Erik shied away from light.

" _Mon cœur_ , are you there?" she whispered. "Can you hear me?"

There was no reply.

"Perhaps you do not think it safe to reply," she went on. "In case you are here, I must tell you: I have had such an evening! I went to the concert as you suggested." She paused for a moment. "The winner was a fellow named Joseph Masson, whoever that may be." She tried to keep a straight face. "But I think you knew that already." At last she could not keep back her smile any longer. "Indeed, it was inevitable - none of the other entries could compare to you. Such music! It was a triumph! This has been one of the happiest evenings of my life. How proud I am!"

It was almost like when he had been the angel - her whispering to him in the dark. She found the memory did not distress her as much as it once had. Erik and the angel were not as different as she had thought. Both had loved and protected her, although in different ways. She waited, but he stayed distant.

"Well, I shall leave a note in the usual place," she finished at last, suppressing a wave of disappointment. Drawing a scrap of paper toward her, she lit the lamp just enough to see by and wrote him a few lines.

 _My darling! What can I say? Are there any words for such a time? It is beyond everything! Paris is at your feet! Saint-Saëns called you a genius. (I knew that already, but I thought you would like to hear that such a great artist agrees.) How proud I am! I wanted to leap up and scream for joy - to proclaim to the whole city that you are the man I am lucky enough to be engaged to (but have no fear, I managed to contain myself - somehow). Only music would do to express my exultation but I shall have to wait to sing my happiness to you another time. In the meantime, imagine a thousand trumpets blaring. Imagine a thousand angels singing the Hallelujah Chorus. I am yours, forever and a day. Come to me soon, I beg you._

When the ink was dry, she slipped the note into her sleeve and crept out into the corridor, beginning the long trek back through the vast building. Slowly, she wound her way through the Opéra Populaire's labyrinthine corridors toward the grand vestibule just inside the main entrance. A narrow stone corridor that looked strikingly plain compared to the rest of the building, the vestibule was not nearly as grand as its name implied. Its only apparent function was as a barrier to keep cold air out of the main galleries. The employees preferred to use the artists' entrance, and so, during the hours when the opera house was closed to tourists, the room's sole inhabits were a row of dead composers. Immortalized in stone by some of France's greatest sculptors, George Friedrich Handel, Christophe Willibald Gluck, Jean-Baptise Lulli, and Jean-Philippe Rameau sat motionless on their pedestals, their thoughts known only to themselves. Lulli had lately become Christine's favorite. She didn't know much about him as a composer or as a man - though if the sculptor's depiction of him was to be believed, he'd had a frightening scowl. But in spite of his stony expression, it seemed his spirit had taken pity on her and Erik, for his left hand was open just enough to make a perfect hiding-place for secret notes.

It had been Erik's idea originally. Christine had been anxious about it to begin with, fearful that someone would find them. But he had assured her that the tourists who passed through it on their way into the Opéra were so enthralled with the sight of the sumptuous gallery just beyond that they scarcely even noticed the statues. In addition, he insisted that people were seldom observant enough to spot anything they weren't expecting to see. It was how he had managed to stay hidden in the opera house for so long. So far this theory of his had proven to be true. Lulli, it seemed, was a faithful guardian of their secrets.

After glancing around to see that no-one was watching, Christine tucked the note between his fingers and backed away. She wondered if he was curious about what it said. If so, he was polite enough not to say.

"Thank you," she whispered to him. "I would invite you to our wedding if you could come." And she waved at him as she walked away.

* * *

 **Music suggestions: 'Les Oiseaux dans la Charnille' by Jacques Offenbach; 'Mein Herr Marquis' by Johann Strauss (any singer. I personally love Nathalie Dessay for the former and Barbara Bonney for the latter.)**

It had cost Erik not to go to Christine at once when she came into the opera house that night. Her face when she had come in was shining with happiness and excitement. She looked more beautiful than ever, and he wanted to run out of the shadows, catch her up in his arms, swing her into the air and spin her around, like any other giddy fool would do with the woman he loved. But it would be safer not to go to at present. He had reason to hope that soon they would not have to be afraid anymore. He did not yet know where or how he would deposit the check with his winnings from the composition contest. That was irrelevant for the time being. He had it, and it wasn't going anywhere; he'd been sure to hide it well. They would find a way to claim the money in due course. In the meantime, therefore, he had an errand to do. After Christine had left and he'd taken her note from the statue, tucking it safely into the pocket by his heart to read later, he let himself into the managers' office. There was no risk whatsoever that they would still be there. Unless there was a possibility of being given champagne, they never stayed past four o'clock in the afternoon. Madame Charpentier, the woman who cleaned their office, therefore took advantage of their absence and always put everything in order before five o'clock. She had moved on long ago. He was quite alone. He didn't linger. He quickly deposited a generous stack of banknotes on the table as he'd come to do. But before leaving, he allowed himself the indulgence of crafting one final note. This was, after all, the last time he would do this, and he wanted to do it properly. At last, after blotting the paper dry - he would miss that red ink, he realized with a pang - he bid a fond farewell to the Opera Ghost, and then made for home to get a sound night's sleep. He set his clock to wake him early the next day. Nothing short of a fire would get the managers in before ten forty-five in the morning, but he wanted to be sure to get in position well before then. By the time they finally strolled in at around eleven-thirty, he was waiting comfortably in the ventilation duct above their office. It was here that he had long ago fashioned a gap in the moulding - all but invisible from the floor - that afforded an excellent view of everything that went on the room. He knew it was risky to be there, but after making such a sacrifice, he had to see what they would do. Andre entered first. Erik swiftly shut the novel he had been reading - The Royal Diadem/em by Carl Jonas Love Almqvist; Christine had recommended it to him - and leaned forward. The little man strode in with an irritable expression, flinging his hat and gloves into a chair before turning to his desk. When he saw the money, he stopped dead, in the middle of shrugging his coat off his shoulders. His eyes seemed to double in size. Firmin came in an instant later. Predictably, he was talking loud enough to fill the whole corridor with the sound of his voice, and did not seem to care whether he received any sort of response.

"That social-climbing little w— and her brat aren't getting a sou from me. That's not the Firmin way. I shall tell you what I did. I told her she can-"

"-Firmin," Andre squeaked. Firmin looked up, annoyed by the interruption of his demonstration of machismo.

" _What_?" Andre extended a trembling index finger toward the desk. In a whisper, he added, "Look!"

Firmin turned round with a look of the utmost lack of interest. When he saw the bills, however, he jerked his head backward in astonishment. "Who put that there?"

"Damned if I know, old fellow."

"Why..." Firmin cried, cursing incoherently and snatching up the bank-notes. "Five thousand! Ten thousand! This... this... Sixty thousand francs? It's all here! My God! Ah, and there's another one of those wretched, godforsaken notes!"

He ripped it out of its envelope as though he were disemboweling his mortal enemy. Erik winced as the fine parchment crumpled and tore.

 _Enough is enough, don't you think, Messieurs?_ Firmin read. _The joke's wearing thin. What do you say? All's well that ends well. Yours faithfully, O. G._ _P. T. O._ Firmin duly flipped it over, one of his eyelids twitching, clutching hysterically at his moustache with his free hand. " ' _P. S. This a wrench for me, so if you_ would _oblige me by finding a decent first bassoon, I really should be exceedingly grateful_.' "

He paused for a moment. Erik waited eagerly to see what he would do.

"Who would have the gall to send this?" Firmin went on at last. "It's really not amusing! He's abusing our positi-" Suddenly he whirled around to face Andre again. "I ought to have known! Do you think this is funny?" he roared.

He grabbed Andre by the collar and shook him back and forth. The bills went sailing out of his hands. Andre tripped backward and fell against the desk in spectacular fashion. Books, papers, a potted plant, and an inkwell, which Erik was delighted to see had been full to the brim, flew in all different directions. Ink splattered over the walls, leaving stains that would have sent Hermann Rohrshach into convulsions of professional excitement. "All this time!"

"I had nothing to do with this!" Andre squeaked, trying to get free. He snatched up a decanter of brandy which had miraculously escaped the carnage and flung it in Firmin's face.

Erik rubbed his hands together with glee and had to restrain himself from jumping up and down like a child. It was turning out better than he had dared to hope for. The only thing needed to complete the absurdity would have been a cat screeching in the background. This alone had been worth every sou. If only Christine were here to see it. That was the only thing lacking to make this a perfect morning. He couldn't wait to tell her. How she would laugh.

"Look what you've done!" Firmin spluttered, surveying the mess while flinging droplets of brandy off the tips of his fingers.

 _No,_ Erik thought, _Look what I've done. That's my money, you damned fool. Money I rightfully stole. You had better use it well, seeing that I've deigned to give it back to you._

"What _I've_ done!" Andre's moustaches bristled with rage. "You- you-"

"Gentlemen?" came a dignified voice from the doorway. "Is something amiss?"

They whipped their heads around like two schoolboys caught scribbling obscene words on the blackboard.

"Madame Giry," Andre said in a nervous voice. "Well, not exactly, but... well, as a matter of fact, we have just learnt that-"

Firmin elbowed him sharply in the ribs, swiftly kicking the bank-notes under the desk. "-Nothing is the matter at all," he said with a reassuring smile that was truly frightening. "We are simply, ah, cleaning out our desks."

"I... see." Madame Giry blinked.

"Thank you, Madame, for your, er..." Firmin, not well-versed in politeness, looked to Andre for support.

"Kind inquiry," Andre supplied helplessly.

"Yes," Firmin said. "Just so."

"I am reassured in the utmost." Madame Giry's expression, as always, revealed nothing. Her eyes took in the sight of a stray bill lying on the floor, but she looked away again so swiftly that Erik was sure the managers hadn't noticed. Suddenly she peered more closely at Firmin's face. "Have you... been out in the rain, Monsieur?"

"In the rain?" Firmin swiftly wiped a drop of brandy off his moustache. "Why would you think that?"

Madame Giry shrugged. "Well, it is going to rain rather severely this evening. I hope you have brought a good umbrella." She looked up toward the panel behind which Erik was concealed, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew exactly where he was. It was not the first time he'd had that impression. This time, however, for the first time, she was smiling.

"Was there anything else?" Firmin asked impatiently.

"No, thank you. Good afternoon, Monsieur," Madame Giry said. And she sailed away down the corridor.

Firmin hurriedly shut the door behind her and locked it.

"Why didn't you let me tell her?" Andre hissed.

Firmin, however, was smiling. "I have just had an idea, old friend."

"Old friend, indeed," Andre said in a sour voice. "Yes, yes, apologies for all that. I knew it wasn't really you who stole the money. I was merely joking."

Firmin clapped him on the shoulder. "May I congratulate you on winning the lottery, my dear fellow. Thirty thousand francs for each of us."

"What?" Andre's face furrowed with confusion. "But it's not... we don't have it. It was stolen from the company."

Firmin shrugged. "The old owners had to arrange everything so they could make a profit despite the missing funds. We'll still be in the black this year without including this. No-one need ever know."

"No-one at all? But what about the police? I still think..."

"No need," Firmin said. "What can they do? The money's back. All is right in the world. We will simply tell them that all this was simply a... how shall we put this? An unfortunate misunderstanding."

Erik had to stifle a gasp.

"But the incidents..." Andre protested.

"I am perfectly willing to accept the explanation that it was all some prankster," Firmin said, leaning back against the desk. "After all, if the fellow were truly dangerous, he would not have returned the money."

"I suppose," Andre said, "But..."

"Listen," Firmin said. "We can't have news about the 'ghost's' blackmailing getting out to the public. It's all very well to have a rumor about a spook floating around. Good for business. Every fine old building should have its own ghost."

"Are you sure-?"

"-It's free publicity, and the take is vast. To Hell with Gluck and Handel. We'll pack them in the aisles. But we don't want audiences thinking anyone's actually done anything threatening, or it will cease to be merely a joke, and people will start to be afraid to come. Do you understand me?"

"Quite," Andre said.

"And we couldn't have that," Firmin said in an oily voice. "We are a bastion of artistic excellence. We must always be there for the people."

"I suppose so."

"The citizens of our glorious nation should never be afraid to come and support our cultural patrimony."

Now he was speaking Andre's language.

"Just so," the little man said, looking reassured, blissfully unaware of his partner's manipulations.

"Now," Firmin said, "Are we in agreement that those incidents with the stage equipment were merely unfortunate accidents?"

At last, Andre ventured a smile. "Yes. I suppose you are right."

Erik froze with astonishment, scarcely able to believe what had just transpired. He was safe. Christine had been right. He could stay here with her as long as he pleased. And then when she was free they could go live wherever they wished. Together. As it should be. He wanted to run to her at once.

First, however, he had to find Madame Giry. He needed to ask something of her.

When he'd emerged he found her, to his amusement, standing right outside the managers' office. Her ear was near the door and she was bent down pretending to pick up a coin-purse she had dropped on the floor - a trick he had taught her for eavesdropping. When she saw him, she hurriedly motioned him into a secluded corner.

"Erik," she said. "I am glad you are here. There is something I must ask you."

"Yes, Madame?"

"Did you... give the managers' money back?"

"Yes," he said, "Just last night, as it happens. Madame, I wish you could have seen-"

"-Erik." He stopped as she put a worried hand on his arm. "That is very noble, but how will you look after yourself?"

"Well, as a matter of fact..." He couldn't resist breaking into a wide smile as he explained about the contest. "I have been assured that this will lead to commissions," he finished. "In fact, I have already received several requests. It is remarkable... I shall be able to provide for Christine as she deserves. I truly think that I could be-"

He stopped as he saw Madame Giry's expression. Tears had gathered in her eyes. Even he could not mistake the joy and pride on her face for anything else. He had not realized til now how much he wanted her to be proud of him. She had been happy for him before, but never proud. He had never been able to accomplish anything that would make her so, until now. And now at last he had achieved something, something to justify the faith she'd continually placed in him all these years. He couldn't have been happier if he had won the Légion d'Honneur. Was this what it would have been like to have his mother be proud of him for once? No, he decided. This was better. Madame Giry deserved this and more, after all she had done for him.

When Madame Giry trusted herself to speak, she said, "I know this cannot have been easy for you."

"Well..." He trailed off. "What inspired this course of action?" she asked. His smile grew wider, and he spread his arms as though to say the answer were obvious. "The only thing that could."

"Ah. I see." She paused. "This will be better for Christine, of course," she added at length.

"That was at the forefront of my thoughts," he assured her. "I shall see she is looked after always. I still mean to see her one of the great divas of the world, of course - there is no doubt in my mind she can achieve it - but it would be utterly wrong of me to expect her to support me. And now I shall be able to provide for her in the fashion she deserves."

"That is... admirable," she said in a weak voice. "I want to she that she never has to work for fools like Andre and Firmin again," he went on. "To take her somewhere far away from here, somewhere beautiful. To her own country, perhaps, if she would like that."

Madame Giry hid her distress at the thought of the two of them alone in a faraway land, cut off from all their friends, Christine having to depend entirely on him.

"I want to give her everything in the world," Erik continued, his eyes shining with excitement.

"I am sure you do," she said sadly.

"I shall not disappoint you, Madame," he said. "I know you want the best for her, and so you should. That is what I want as well."

"Naturellement," she said.

"I would be sorry to take her away from you, of course," he went on. "But if we do go away... I shall take the very best care of her. I will see that she does not want for anything. I shall repay the faith you have both put in me. You have my word."

She inhaled deeply. "I never thought you would disappoint my expectations, Erik."

Something about her tone made Erik uneasy, but he couldn't identify what precisely it was, and so, in his happiness, he uncharacteristically decided to ignore it as unimportant.

A silence fell.

"It was not my intention for the managers to keep the money, however," he added after a few moments of awkwardness. "You heard that, I think?"

"Yes," she said. "You were there as well, then?"

He nodded. "I was watching from the-"

She held up a hand. "-Don't tell me. I do not wish to know."

"Yes, of course. Forgive me. Well, at any rate... I was surprised."

"I was not," she scoffed.

He shrugged. "I had not thought even Firmin would stoop to that, although I suppose it should not surprise me." He had noticed a faint streak of that alarming distortion in judgment, faith in humanity, seeping into his mental calculations ever since Christine told him she loved him. At this rate, a few more months of her affection would turn him into a sentimental fool.

"It all makes sense. I ought to have known," Madame Giry said in a frigid voice. "Those fools. The corps de ballet make so little they can scarcely afford to eat, and the managers want to keep all that for themselves just so they can eat caviar and wear Henry Creed suits and..." She trailed off, too angry to finish.

Erik shrugged.

"What are you shrugging for?" she demanded.

"Forgive me, but the solution appears to me to be rather simple: Tell everyone in the company that the money is back."

"Oh, yes, and lose my position. Perfect." He raised a finger. "Once you tell everyone, it will be too late for the managers to do anything about it. Do you see the elegance of it?" "Yes, but they would still fire me," she said. "They would find some pretext to get rid of me. You and I both know I wasn't supposed to see that money just now."

"Ah, but you see, that is not how you learnt of this." Her expression changed. A hint of cunning seeped into her eyes.

"Oh? Isn't it?"

"If they were to ask how you knew, you could simply reply that received a note about it from the Opera Ghost." Erik grinned. "They cannot blame you for that."

She raised her eyebrows. "Ah. I rather like this arrangement. I only wish I had thought of it earlier."

"Yes." He smiled and steepled his fingers together. "I thought you might." Normally, he waited for Madame Giry to dismiss him. But this morning, more even than usual, his insatiable need for Christine was urging him on. It was like a starving creature nipping at his heels, driving him towards her. "And now," he said, "If you will forgive me, there is a certain Mademoiselle I must speak to." He made an elaborate, almost silly bow, spun around so that his cloak swirled out behind him, and hurried off.

* * *

 **END OF CHAPTER 24. Thank you so much for reading!**


	25. Verismo

Chapter 25

* * *

She was not in her practice-room, however. She was already onstage for rehearsal, surrounded by her friends. That was just as he would wish it to be, of course - he was so afraid she would lose her friends as a cause of her engagement to him - but it was impossible to go to her now. He cursed himself for not coming to find her sooner.

He had wanted to tell Christine the news himself, that he had decided to do what she'd wished for, that it had been more successful than even she, with her apparently boundless belief in his genius, could have dreamed. He had to fight an urge to rush onstage and run up to her. But now would have to content himself, as he so often did, with watching from afar.

After seeing that no-one observed him, he climbed to a secluded spot in the scaffolding and perched there out of sight, unable, as always, to take his eyes off her.

Her lovely, gentle, intelligent face was aglow with the same beautiful smile as yesterday. His heart leapt when he saw it. Even from thirty feet away, she was breathtaking.

The group, from what he could gather from the faint snatches of conversation that drifted up to him, were discussing boating, a subject which held no interest for her. He wanted to slap them for being so inconsiderate; he could not understand why everyone did not want to bend over backwards to keep her interested and impressed at all times.

And yet her happy expression did not vary. He had the impression that they could have been talking of botany, or theology, or any number of other somnolent subjects, and her smile would scarcely have faltered. She looked at peace with the world.

But what had changed?

The thought hit him like a bolt of lightning: Could he have done that? Could she really be so happy because of him?

Suddenly he felt like the most powerful man in the world. To be able to make a being as perfect as Christine Daae happy, to fill her life with light, that was an accomplishment more grand, than any other. Greater than a symphony or a cathedral. He was the emperor of all he surveyed, capable of enacting anything he pleased, and she was his queen.

What would happen if he launched himself from the the scaffolding, leapt down there, alighted beside her?

He knew already he would not. And yet, why couldn't he? Surely somehow it would all be well. It could not be wrong for two people who loved one another as much as they did to be together. Surely the universe would rearrange itself to make everything all right for them. If he had Christine's love, he could achieve anything he set out to do. In fact, so far, he had.

However, a moment later, something happened to divert his attention.

* * *

Below, Christine half-listened to the conversations swirling around her, but her mind was far away. She was happy, but she was burning with impatience to see Erik. Why had he not come to her? Where was he?

Only Meg noticed her distraction. She cast an amused glance in her direction, occasionally elbowing her playfully.

At last she was brought out of her thoughts by Madame Giry's appearance.

"Company, I have a message from the Opera Ghost," she called out.

She had said the two words that could cut through any conversation at the opera house. Everyone's attention was suddenly riveted on her, Christine's in particular. All the noise drained out of the room so suddenly it was eerie.

"The sums that were extorted from the managers have been returned," she said, her voice loud in the sudden silence. "Just this morning. A total of sixty thousand francs, I understand."

 _Sixty thousand francs!_ Whispers of astonishment stole through the room at the immense sum.

As it happened, Andre and Firmin had come into the room just then and heard every word.

They had not anticipated this. There was no time for them to think of any excuse or evasion. Their faces showed their undisguised shock, confirming to everyone that it was true.

The silence shattered as the employees broke out into excited conversation.

Christine ran up to Madame Giry, taking her arm eagerly. "Is it certain, Madame? Can this be? Was it really him, do you know?"

Madame Giry smiled weakly. "Yes," she said quietly, resting a hand on her shoulder for a moment. "Don't tell anyone this, my dear, but I saw the money myself as I was passing by the managers' office. And I spoke with him. He has done the honorable thing."

"Why, I am delighted!" Christine could not stop herself from exclaiming, so loudly that Firmin looked over. "Oh, this is the very best thing that could have happened!"

Firmin strode over to her. "Don't know why you look so thrilled about it, my dear girl," he said. Fury was turning his face an alarming shade of puce. "It's not as though we're giving any of it to you. Your salary is quite comfortable as it is. I don't know what we pay you for at all - any of you fools!"

Christine merely smiled still wider. She couldn't help it. "Just as you say, Monsieur," she replied in a pleasant voice.

This infuriated Firmin still further, and he stalked off in search of some more receptive target for his spleen, shouting something that sounded like "Should never have left the junk business!"

Madame Giry was safe for now.

Christine turned to her. "Does this mean you approve?" she asked quietly.

Madame Giry's face creased with pain. "I am sorry, my dear, but it does not. I had other objections, you will recall."

"But Madame, please-"

"-My dear, let us not quarrel, I entreat you."

Despite this plea from Madame Giry, the tension in the conversation showed no sign of abating. Fortunately, they were interrupted just then.

"Eet eez all a ploy to help Chreestine Daae," came La Carlotta's voice. Though it came from across the stage, Christine could tell it was directed specifically at her.

She turned slowly round.

"This eez all her doing," the diva sneered, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. Attired in a remarkable dress of purple and orange, trimmed with so many bows it could have supplied hair-ribbons for a whole army of ballerinas, she sailed across the stage toward Christine, the crowd parting before her.

Christine raised her eyebrows in mild amusement at this outlandish remark. "Is that so, Signora?"

"How dare you?" Meg shouted at the same time, elbowing her way towards them.

La Carlotta ignored Meg completely, as a creature entirely beneath her notice. "We all know the notes were by you, you leettle toad," she said to Christine. "No-one else eez anxious your career should progress."

"I am!" Meg said. "And so is everyone else except-"

"-No-one else thinks you have any talent," La Carlotta went on, cutting her off. Yes, eet was you who wrote ze letters- you must 'ave stolen ze money too."

"No," Christine said.

"And now zat ze police were about to start breathing down your neck," Carlotta went on, "you lost your nerve and returned eet to keep yourself out of trouble. Do you think eet eez not obvious?"

Meg lunged forward, but Christine gently caught hold of her arm, holding her back.

Carlotta peered down her nose at Christine. "It does not matter. You will never amount to anything," she sneered. "You are merely a jumped-up, overambitious, scrawny little Swiss chorus-girl." And she started to turn away, smiling triumphantly.

"I object, Madame!" Christine said.

Carlotta froze, looking over her shoulder in consternation. The smile faded from her face. Christine had never answered back to her before. (Christine had never thought it worth the trouble.)

"I am a jumped-up, overambitious, scrawny little _Swedish_ chorus-girl," Christine said, stifling a laugh, "And I shall thank you to remember it!" And she ran away laughing, leaving the great diva hopelessly bewildered.

* * *

Meg charged after her, catching up to her in a corridor outside the dancers' practice-room. "Christine, what is going on? What is this business with the ghost? What do you know?"

"You shall finally have an answer!" Christine laughed delightedly. She grabbed Meg's hands and spun her around until they both almost fell over. "He will not object to me telling you now - I am sure of it."

"What is going on?" Meg said, laughing in spite of herself.

"Now that it is safe I must tell you!" Christine beamed. "I simply cannot keep it to myself any longer! Oh, how delightful this is!"

"Tell me _what_? Christine, stop talking in riddles!"

"Forgive me. It is simply that I have so much to acquaint you with." Christine smoothed out her skirt and tried to compose herself. "Where to begin? I hardly know. How much has happened these past few weeks!" She looked around to see that no-one was watching and then began, "Meg, where to begin? I... Well, you see, my instructor, Erik - you see, unfortunately, he is also the Phantom. Or was."

"Oh, I know that," Meg said wryly.

"You knew?"

Meg shrugged.

"How long?"

"I'm not sure. I suspected it for a long time." Meg paused. "And yet you love him anyway?"

"He isn't going to be the Phantom anymore," Christine said. "I begged him not to. He means not to steal and cheat anymore."

"Why would he do that?"

"He loves me, Meg. He has all this time."

"Christine! Good gracious!"

"Yes." Christine shook her head, overwhelmed. "It is all so singular, so peculiar... and so very beautiful." She laid out the whole story, beginning with their reconciliation and going all the way up to his returning the managers' money - though she omitted the details of Erik's proposal, and she did not tell Meg of his condition. She illuminated just enough of his life for Meg to understand why he had turned to blackmailing, and left it at that. "I am so very happy he has given the money back," she finished, wiping tears out of her eyes. "He knew how much I wanted it - for us to be able to remain here, for him to be free. It is the greatest gift he could ever have given me - for him to be safe and us to be happy together."

"Oh, my goodness," Meg said in an awed voice when she had finished her narrative.

"Yes..." Christine shook her head in amazement. "I can hardly believe it myself."

"It is remarkable! It is almost like something out of a novel."

"Yes." Christine smiled, almost in a daze, still not quite able to comprehend that she could be so happy.

"Why... it all makes sense now... Returning the money, and the police no longer looking for him... You think it safe to tell me now."

"Yes," Christine said, impressed with Meg's perception. "Erik said you would make a fine detective, and he is right. I am glad you are on our side."

Meg grinned.

"As a matter of fact, I have been longing to tell you," Christine went on. "But Erik thought it unsafe for you, and perhaps he was right to be cautious."

"I would not have objected if you had told me anyway," Meg said. "I laugh in the face of danger." She smiled wryly. "But I am grateful for his concern all the same. That speaks well of him."

Christine felt as though an immense weight had been lifted from her. "You understand, then, I think."

Meg paused. "Yes, I do," she said at last.

"Thank you. I don't know what I have done to deserve your being so gracious."

"Nonsense." Meg smiled. "As long as he treats you the way he ought, that is all I can ask for."

"Then... When the time comes, will you be my maid of honor?" Christine asked.

Meg grinned. "Ducky, I've been planning my maid-of-honor gown since we were six."

A moment later, they were laughing and embracing.

"To think!" Meg cried. "My little Christine is going to be married!"

"Little, indeed! I am a month older than you."

"Yes, but I practically raised you," Meg said wryly, and they broke down into laughter once more.

Eventually, their mirth drifted away into silence. The music in Christine's mind grew slower, more contemplative, more hesitant. She pulled away and fixed Meg in a serious, steady gaze.

"Meg, do you think me mad?" she asked all at once, taking her hands.

"Mad?" Meg echoed in astonishment. "Why should I think that?"

"Why, because this is all... _highly_ irregular." Christine sighed, overwhelmed. "If _you_ do not understand me, then there isn't a chance that anyone else well."

Meg shrugged. "You are in love," she said simply. "That has been known to happen to even the most intelligent persons - as I have discovered myself," she added with a grin. "I have some idea of what it can do to one."

"Yes," Christine said, though privately she wondered if steady, practical Meg or the Baron - both of them always in a good humor and never troubled by uneasy passions - could really understand the intensity of what had possessed her these past few months.

"Of course you would be willing to go against convention for the sake of that," Meg finished.

Christine smiled, grateful. "Thank you. But... do you think me mad for falling in love with _him?_ For choosing him?"

Meg hesitated. "Well, he has shown he'll be able to look after you," she said practically. "And it seems he means to try to live an honest life from now on. And I do think he truly loves you - though a few weeks ago, I would never have believed I'd ever say _that_."

"He does, very much indeed." Christine peered at Meg's face. "But?"

"Well..." Meg hesitated.

"Please, tell me," Christine pleaded.

At last Meg went on. "Christine, I can forgive his being the Phantom. "You tell me he had a good reason for it, and your word is good enough for me. But that scheme of deceiving you, pretending to be the angel... Christine, I know I said I didn't mind before, back when you'd first found out, but that was just for lessons! This - getting engaged to the fellow - is another matter."

Christine's heart sank.

"Why did he deceive you for so many years?" Meg went on. "If he wanted to approach you, why did he not do so openly and honestly?"

"I understand your concern," Christine began. She sighed. "But I cannot-"

"-No, no, you don't see what I mean." Meg gently put a hand on her arm.

"Oh?" Christine felt a flicker of hope.

Meg paused, thinking. "How to explain?" she went on at last. "You see, here's my view. You are a sensible girl; I would assume that you would not be trusting him with your life, after he did things like that, unless there was a good explanation for all of it."

Christine felt a flood of immeasurable gratitude. "Yes, precisely. There is."

"Something that you can't tell anyone," Meg said. "Am I right?"

"Yes," Christine said. "Perhaps someday I shall be able to tell you - in fact, I hope I shall - but not yet."

"Very well. That is just what I had hoped to hear," Meg said. "And is it something that, if I knew it, would make me pardon him too? Please tell me it is." Her voice unexpectedly took on a pleading note. "I don't know how I'll be easy if not."

"Yes," Christine said. "There I can reassure you: It would. I feel certain that it would."

Meg nodded, looking relieved. "Very well, then. That's all I can ask."

"Meg, thank you." Christine pulled her into an embrace, tears of gratitude in her eyes. "Is there anything else?" she asked after a few moments, pulling away.

"Yes. Does he treat you well, dear?" Meg asked.

Christine smiled. "There even you could not find anything to object to, I know. He treats me as though I were an empress."

Meg's face brightened. "Good."

"No woman was ever so fortunate, I believe, in her choice of husband," Christine went on happily. "He thinks nothing too good for me."

"Well, that is just as it should be." Meg squeezed her hands, smiling widely. "If he treats you as he ought, and you are happy, that is all I can ask for."

"But he is not an aristocrat," Christine said wryly.

"Oh, pish. You know I don't give a fig about that sort of thing. As long as you are well-taken care of."

Christine hid a smile. "But did you not at one time want me to marry Raoul?"

"Yes, at one time I did," Meg admitted. "He seems the perfect gentleman, you cannot deny it. But I suppose if I am honest with myself, I've seen for awhile that it wasn't quite right."

Christine nodded. "He could never make me happy. And I am convinced I could not make him truly happy either, whatever he may think."

"Though I myself shall never really understand quite what it is you found wanting in him," Meg added.

Christine shrugged. "There is nothing wanting, per se. He is everything that is amiable and worthy. But even if I had not met Erik... there is no true meeting of the minds between me and Monsieur le Vicomte. I cannot find words to explain it, but it is so. He and I would always be at odds. He deserves to marry a lady with whom he can see eye to eye."

"Hm." Meg took this in. "Yes, I suppose you're right." She paused. "Does he know yet?"

"No... not yet." Christine's face fell. "Oh dear. I suppose I must tell him."

"Yes, you must!" Meg said, looking surprised that she had not done it already. "You have not written to him yet?"

"No... In the midst of all this I had forgotten. Oh dear. I do hope he has gotten over this silliness about me," Christine fretted. "I should be sorry indeed if my happiness were to make him unhappy."

"You had better write to him at once," Meg said. "The sooner you get it over with, the better for the both of you."

"But I promised him I would wait until he returned to give him an answer."

Meg winced. "He only wanted you to say that because he was expecting you would answer yes."

Christine swallowed. "Yes, I suppose that is true," she said fretfully.

"Don't keep putting it off. It is cruel to keep him in suspense any longer. Especially when he is off risking his life battling ferocious penguins, or whatever it is people do at the North Pole."

Christine smiled. "Yes. You are quite right. But I should prefer to speak with Erik first. He may still want this to be a secret."

"It is not necessary to tell the Vicomte you are engaged to Erik." Meg smiled. "Simply tell him that you are now sure you do not return his feelings. I assure you Erik will not object to _that_."

Christine laughed. "Yes. You are right. Very well. I shall write to him this evening. Let us pray the Arctic air has cleared his head."

"Would you like my help?" Meg offered. "I have a great deal of experience in breaking the hearts of my unfortunate admirers."

Christine almost laughed. "I would be very grateful."

"Very well, then," Meg said. "The matter is settled. And to think! Christine, you are to be a bride! Really and truly!" She paused, tilting her head to one side. Suddenly a wistful look came into her hazel eyes. If it had been anyone but Meg, Christine would almost have thought she saw tears there. "Oh, dear, I think I hear Reyer calling," she said suddenly, and the moment was over.

"Yes, me too."

"I suppose we ought to go. They do pay us a salary, after all," Meg observed wryly.

Christine grinned. "Yes, I suppose we must."

"Very well." Meg put her arm through Christine's. "Shall we rejoin the others, my dear Madame?" she said in a pompous voice, striking a showy pose.

Christine gathered her skirt as though it were a priceless silk evening-gown. "Yes, my dear baroness, we sh-"

"Shhh!" Meg whirled around and stuck a warning finger up to her lips, her eyes wide with alarm. "Don't call me that! It's bad luck!"

Christine shrugged. "You might well be married before I am," she said, smiling.

Meg looked away shyly. "He hasn't even asked," she said, as they started walking again.

"I daresay he will before the month is out." Christine smiled. "And our situation is so precarious, even now... You might already have about fourteen children before we ever have our wedding."

Meg shushed her frantically, looking around as though Fate herself were hanging on their every word, ready to come down hard on them for the slightest hint of optimism. But she was giggling all the same.

Suddenly she stopped dead. A smirk played over her face as she tried to hold in a spurt of particularly pointed laughter.

Christine saw that a new idea had come into her head. "What?" she demanded.

Meg peered at her out of the corner of her eye.

"What is it?" Christine cried.

Meg smirked. "This explains all those extra 'music lessons' you suddenly had to have."

"What?" Christine felt herself blush. "Why, Meg...!"

"You weren't doing much singing, were you, ducky?"

Christine blushed more deeply, and cursed her fair complexion, knowing that Meg could see it clearly. "No... No, I suppose we weren't..."

* * *

Now that Meg knew, it was as though a weight had been lifted from Christine. No more trying to hide things from her; no more sneaking behind her back and slipping away when she wasn't watching.

In fact, Meg helped her get away unobserved and walked with her back to her practice-room. Christine suggested she might want to stay and speak to Erik, but to her surprise, Meg simply said with a smile that she thought they would want to be alone, and left her there.

It would appear she had been right about his not wanting company, for a few moments after she had gone, he appeared.

With a cry of happiness, Christine threw her arms around him. "We are safe, mon cœur," she said without preamble. Suddenly she felt tears choke her voice. "The managers are going to tell the police the money is found."

"Yes," he said simply, tenderly tracing a finger along her cheek. It was difficult to see behind his mask, but she thought she saw him blinking back tears.

"You shall not have to leave me," she said, still lost in the shock of it. "You shall be here, no longer a ghost, no longer just a wraith who appears and disappears... Can this be real?"

"I believe it to be. I hope it is."

"It is almost too much to believe... I shall be able to sleep again..."

"Indeed, I can scarcely credit it myself," he said. "I never imagined I could give you any kind of normalcy."

"You do yourself a disservice," she said. "I knew it could all be well - that there must be a way. I always knew we could have a happy life together."

"But you were not sure _I_ would not make the process more difficult."

She smiled ruefully, simultaneously admitting it and pointing out that she'd been right to wonder.

He gave a taunting grin. "You ought not to underestimate me."

"Can you forgive me for being angry with you about not publishing your music?"

"There is nothing to forgive. You were right."

"It was you who gave the money back?" she said, though she already knew.

He grinned. "I don't see anyone at the Opéra being possessed by a sudden charitable inclination to deposit a small fortune on the desk of Messieurs Andre and Firmin, charming though they are."

"Yes. That cannot have been easy - sixty thousand francs," she said in awe.

To her surprise, he chuckled. "Their consternation was abundant reward, I assure you."

"Indeed?"

"My sole regret is that you were not present to witness the utter madness of it. It was better than a comic-opera. It was the Phantom's finest hour, my dear. And his last," he added quickly, "you have my word-"

"-You were present?" she said, concerned.

"I was concealed," he said quickly.

"No-one saw you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you doubt my powers? You may have disposed of the Phantom and dispensed with his more malicious tendencies, but not his cunning, I assure you. I do not intend to part with that, thank you."

"Very well. I suppose I can allow that."

"You are very good." He grinned.

"Tell me how you went about it," she said.

Grinning, he related the whole story to her.

Christine laughed so hard she fell over onto the piano keys, sending out a jarring chord of about forty notes at the same time, which made him begin to laugh in turn. She began to slip, and had to catch on to his arm to keep herself from sliding to the floor.

When her laughter had subsided and he'd gently helped her to her feet again - after several false starts - all at once everything suddenly seemed to be quieter.

She met his gaze intently. The world suddenly seemed to grow smaller, to draw in tight around them.

She turned up her face and kissed him blissfully. "How happy you have made me, mon cœur," she murmured, blinking tears from her eyes. "Oh, thank you! Truly, I know it cannot have been easy for you. All of it. The music... everything."

He pressed his lips to her forehead. Though they were cold, a soft warmth radiated through her from the spot, as though she were slowly blossoming.

She took hold of his arm and held it against her with both of hers, as though by doing so she could hold him here, trap him in human form, keep him safe with her forever.

Erik gazed at her silently, drinking in the sight of her. Each time he saw her he feared it might be the last.

He shoved the thought away.

"What made you decide to submit to the competition?" Christine ventured after a moment, bending her head and kissing his knuckles. She was startled by how rough his hands were; she had never really noticed it before. They were worn with work, calloused and sinewed and scarred. How was it he could play with such delicacy, calling forth such beauty, such exquisite impressions and passions and sensations? Upon the violin, the piano - upon her, almost in spite of himself, when he dared to touch her? There was still some softness in him yet. She was beginning to find it - and drawing it out was the most beautiful riddle of her life. "You were so determined to keep your music to yourself."

"Yes." He thought. "I must thank you, Christine," he said at last. "It is owing to you that this change has come about."

"Whatever you success you have had, you owe it all to the splendor of your genius."

He blinked. His whole attitude, his posture, showed he was genuinely taken aback, pleasantly startled, by this lavish praise. "Mon rêve... Thank you, mon rêve. But you see, before I did not have the courage. But now that I have you... You see, the chance to have these months with you, to not be parted from you, that is worth anything. I would have dared a great deal more for that."

She blinked back tears. "Mon cœur..."

"But..." he went on.

"But?"

"I fear the opera house may not be the safest place for us. I still have enemies here."

Christine thought of Buquet. "Yes, I suppose that is so."

He smiled. "But elsewhere, you know... Where shall we go?"

"I should like to go to your home. You cannot say it is unsafe now. There is no reason why I should not be down there with you."

He looked disappointed. Of all the places she could have chosen. "I know what place you are speaking of, but it is not my home. My home shall be with you, soon." He brightened a little at this realization.

"Yes! Why, you know, it is safe now for us to look for a home together - how delightful it is!" She pulled away and took hold of his hands, lacing her fingers through his. "We shall have a little house and go out on Sundays, and play and sing together all the time. Oh! I am so happy I could weep."

"You already are weeping copiously, mon rêve."

She smiled and looked away shyly. "Yes, very well, I admit it - you have made me go quite distracted with happiness, but don't boast."

"I shall try to contain myself."

She kissed him. "Well, shall we go there? I should like to sing something for you."

He hesitated.

"It is better-concealed than up here," she said. "Otherwise I should insist that you come live up here with me." She smiled, but no answering light came into his eyes.

"Do you not wish to go there?" she prompted, when he did not reply.

He seemed to be rousing himself from some depths. "I should not like for you to be trapped in that darkness," he said at last, coming to. He took her hands to show he still wanted her nearby, that he was not trying to get rid of it.

"You think it gloomy, but all the same there is something of the romantic about it," she said, her eyes aglow. "Imagine - a man who lives in a palace underground!" She smiled brightly, taken with the phrase.

He sighed sadly, eyes downcast. "I am afraid the charms of this palace fast wear thin. I cannot go on living like this, like an animal in a burrow. I want to live like everyone else now."

"You will never be quite like everyone else," she said tenderly.

"Oh! Do not say that! I am not a creature of the darkness. Not by choice," he added sadly.

"That is not what I meant. There is more light in you than in anyone I have ever known."

Erik sucked in his breath, too overwhelmed to speak. This time it was his turn to look away.

"Perhaps it would be useful for me to show you the usual route by which I arrive there," he relented after a moment, gathering himself, able to look at her again. In order to keep from making it seem like she'd won, he added petulantly, "I do not want you to always feel the need to be going in and out the Rue Scribe gate."

She smiled, realizing what a concession this was on his part. "You speak as though you have learnt you cannot stop me from going where I wish to. That is wise."

"Oh, indeed?"

"Yes." She grinned. "But if you think it safer to go by a different route, then I shall oblige, though it does cost me to be told what to do."

"You will find this way rather taxing, I fear." Though indeed, that was not the real reason. He hated for her to see the grim tunnels he had been banished to for some long.

"I am prepared."

He sighed. "Bring your coat."

She smiled saucily. "Just as you say, Captain."

He peered at her through narrowed eyes, trying to be annoyed with her but finding it, for the time being, impossible.

As she gathered her coat from where she'd tossed it on a chair, he stepped toward the back wall of the room with its enormous mirror.

She watched him in confusion. She couldn't imagine what he could be doing; he hated looking in mirrors, even despite the mask. "What are you doing?"

He made some faint noise in reply; he seemed to be concentrating on something.

After a moment, he reached out and carefully pressed his hand against a corner in the pattern of the paper.

There was a pause, and then suddenly, the mirror shifted in its frame and swung open like a revolving door, revealing a vast expanse of empty blackness beyond.

Christine gasped and started forward. "Good Heavens! It is like Alice in Wonderland."

He smiled. "Yes, I suppose it is."

"How did you come to find this?" She took hold of his arm.

"I found the passage when I first came here. A few years ago I installed the mirror."

A smile spread over her face at this announcement. "Oh?"

He looked at her inquiringly.

"Well," she explained in reply, "If you built it here... Then you had planned to show me your home. You had wanted to be with me, to share your music with me. Your world."

"I do not know. I built this before it became your practice-room. It is a convenient location."

"Oh, I see. Yes, that makes sense." Suddenly she laughed softly.

He smiled in spite of himself. "What is it?"

"Well - I always wondered why they spent the money to put a fine mirror like this in this little closet. Now I understand."

He laughed. "Ah, yes."

"I suppose I always assumed someone at the Opéra must have put it in for a reason. The managers certainly never questioned it, if they even know this room exists."

He smirked. "Even if they do, which I very much doubt, those two will never object to having what is too good for them."

She laughed.

"Well, mon rêve?" Erik stepped forward and carefully held the mirror open with his shoulder. He pivoted so he was facing Christine and extended his hand, beckoning. "Come to me, my Angel of Music."

She raised her eyebrows. "I thought you were the Angel."

"If either of us has anything of the divine in us, it is surely you."

Smiling, Christine took his hand and stepped through the mirror.

* * *

 ** _End of Chapter 25. Thank you so much for reading!_**


	26. La Musique de la Nuit

Chapter 26

* * *

The mirror swung shut behind them. Immediately they went from full light to the deepest darkness. Before she could ask for it, Christine felt Erik's arm go around her waist to steady her, the only thing she could detect in the blackness, warm and solid and reassuring.

He soon produced a torch, seemingly from out of thin air, and as her eyes adjusted to the light, she found they were standing in a dank stone passage, much like the one she'd gone through with Madame Giry earlier that year.

Before she had time for more than a gasp of interest, he charged forward, pulling her along the passage with her hand tightly clasped in his. He held it not in an easy, companionable way, but carefully, almost gingerly, holding it up as though it were very fragile, as though she might fall at any moment.

Though she could not imagine why such concern was necessary, she did not object. She liked it, though she would never admit it to him.

Their footsteps echoed in the vastness of the tunnel. He moved quickly, head held high, eyes flicking to and fro like a panther's.

Christine did not feel the need for such paranoia; she knew he was frightened, but she felt sure that he would be a match for whatever they might encounter. Still, with tunnels branching off every which way, every one going on until it was obscured in darkness, it was like an underground city. It reminded her of a dream she'd often had as a girl, where she went wandering through an endless series of dark underground passages, and though she was lost she never felt anything but excitement, eagerness to see what lay around the next bend.

"Do I dream again?" she said in amazement.

He smiled grimly but did not reply.

Their path took them slowly but steadily downwards. For some time they walked in silence. A few times she ventured a remark, but he replied halfheartedly each time, his eyes on their course. Only once did he speak unprompted, to ask her if she was warm enough and if he was going too quickly for her, but when she said he was, he merely apologized, promised to slacken his pace, and, without realizing it, began to go still faster.

Eventually she abandoned her attempts at conversation. She had the sense that for now she was walking with the Phantom, not Erik, that he became this dark and silent creature whenever he had to venture out into the open.

They descended further still, and she calculated that by now they must be several stories underground, deeper even than Paris' legendary catacombs, a place she'd always been intrigued by.

After what seemed an eternity, when she began to feel that they were never going to reach the end, she saw ahead of them a flight of stone steps which ended abruptly in the water. A small boat sat moored at the bottom, eerily still on the flat calm surface.

"Is this part of the same lake?" she asked, surprised; it did not look at all as she recalled.

He nodded.

"It must be immense. I cannot even see the grotto from here."

"It is rather a labyrinth. Night is blind here," he added in an ironic voice, gesturing melodramatically with a sweep of his cloak. "For the rest of the journey, we shall have to take the boat. Do you mind?"

"Good Heavens." She smiled with excitement and swiftly began to descend the stairs. "How thrilling."

Erik swiftly moved to join her, putting an uneasy hand on her arm as though she might fall into the lake.

She stopped and turned to him with a smile so lovely it froze him where he stood for a moment.

"It is remarkable." She looked around with eager eyes. "Who would ever have guessed that such a place lay here, beneath the Opéra district, no less? It is like another world."

"Yes. The underworld. And now we begin our journey on the river Styx," he said dryly.

"For my part, it reminds me more of Venice, as I picture it," she offered. "Venice at night."

"As ever, you manage to make things sound considerably more pleasant. It is an admirable quality of yours."

"As ever, you manage to make things sound considerably more sinister," she riposted. "It is a... notable quality of yours."

He chuckled.

"I have always dreamed of Venice," she mused. "I should love to go there one day."

"You shall." He arranged a cushion against the seat of the boat for her. "It won't be five years before you are starring in an opera there."

"That would be extraordinary. I hope you are there with me if I ever am fortunate enough to go there, mon cœur."

"I fear that would not be possible." He braced one foot against the edge of the boat to steady it and held out his hand to help her in.

She sighed and settled into her seat.

Erik threw off the mooring-ropes, leapt neatly into the boat, and, taking up a heavy pole that had been leaning against it, shoved them away from the dock.

With the ease of long practice, he took position in the back of the boat and maneuvered them out of the shallows. Christine watched him, impressed. She'd tried to pole a boat once, on a lake in the Bois de Boulogne, when she'd taken a trip there with Meg. In the end, she'd accomplished little more than pushing it around in lopsided circles, stranding them in a clump of lily pads. Meg had fared little better, and eventually they'd had to give up and laboriously paddle themselves back to shore with their hands. They still laughed about it.

It was difficult to imagine a scene more different from the gloomy prospect that stretched before her now. Soon they had left the shores of the dark lake behind. There was no illumination but the delicate lamps that hung suspended from the front and back of the boat, which cast just enough light to give a hint of how vast the darkness was that lay beyond. Christine shivered a little at the enormity of it, both thrilled and a little uneasy.

She drew back and leaned against Erik's legs, drawing comfort from his nearness. His strength and darkness might have been frightening to some but when she was with him, she felt safe, for it seemed nothing could match him.

Nothing except her, it appeared. She smiled a little to herself at the thought.

He propelled them onwards, drawing out of the tangled tunnels under the opera house and into a chamber so vast it could be described as open water.

To her surprise, a cold breeze blew over her. There was enough space down here that the air circulated. For all she'd said about being prepared, she found she was underdressed. This was absurd, she thought, for it to overwhelm her, who'd weathered six winters in the Swedish countryside. Paris' mild, rainy climate had spoiled her.

She should have brought a parka, she thought wryly.

She reached back until her fingers found the trailing hem of Erik's dark cloak. Pulling it forward, she wrapped it around herself. He glanced down at her briefly, at last giving a smile, before turning his attention back to their course.

With clean, sure strokes he pushed them efficiently through the dark water.

From the safety of her cocoon, Christine looked down at the lake with a certain uneasy but thrilling foreboding. Anything could be in those depths. Erik had assured her the water was only a few feet deep, when she expressed a fear that he might fall in with no-one there to help him - but nonetheless there was something about it that made one imagine shadowy monsters swimming below. "Do you ever fear that some creature will come out of the water and get you?"

"No. They are all afraid of me," he said, almost jokingly. He seemed more at ease out here on the water. Suddenly, however, his face darkened. "And with good reason. I am more vile and dangerous than anything down there could ever be."

She laughed, but trailed off as she realized this may not have been a jest.

"I hate to think of you being by yourself down here all those years," she said momentarily.

"Then do not speak of it," he snapped.

She blinked in surprise.

He sighed. " _Mon rêve_ , forgive me. You did not deserve... just because I..."

She looked up at him in confusion.

He stopped awkwardly, unable to convey his thoughts. Sighing with frustration, he stabbed the pole furiously into the water.

Christine reached her hand back and brushed her fingertips against his, a poor gesture, but all she could do for now.

It was enough. He understood. He smiled down at her, more tenderly this time, and she felt the anger go out of him, leave the room, leave them in peace.

They drifted over the water like a sheet of murky green glass. Wisps of mist hung over the lake like trailing veils.

It was the atmosphere for calling forth snatches of peculiar song, for making you say strange poetic things that you forgot again soon afterwards. She felt rather as though she were under the influence of some strange but not unpleasant drug. Her lingering anxieties disappeared.

At last they came upon the grotto and she was afforded a new view of his home, resplendent from across the gleaming lake, afire with the candles he never extinguished, spreading out like a city in miniature.

Hanging from an outcropping of rock a few yards away was a heavy portcullis. When they had passed underneath of it, Erik threw a lever and it shut behind them. With the same motion, candelabras rose out of the water, their wicks bursting into flame as they met the air. Christine whirled around, staring at them in astonishment. She knew it was one of Erik's tricks, that he was capable of effecting almost any illusion one could imagine, but the effect was still so surreal that it was difficult to credit her senses.

The candlelight reflected hazily off the mist, so that the room seemed to be filled with glittering golden smoke, and the surface of the lake was turned to a cloudy gold as well.

"Sing, my angel of music," Erik pleaded suddenly, his voice both rough and tender. With the dropping of the portcullis, the tense silence that had hung over him had fallen away, and he became more like the Erik she knew. "Sing for me."

She must. She had to sing for him; she needed it as she had never needed anything before. The whole earth turned on the music.

She drew a breath; conscious of the power within her, she began to vocalize strangely, as though possessed by some fearful beauty, her song growing more and more extravagant and unearthly.

As though urged on by her voice, the boat drew forward and soon nosed up against the shore.

Erik sprang out as nimbly as a cat and drew off his cloak with a flourish, describing elaborate, swooping symbols with it in the air before letting it come to rest in immaculate folds on the stone.

He helped her carefully from the boat, not letting go of her until she was well away from the water, as though even a drop of it daring to touch the hem of her dress could have dissolved her like a sprite. His gaze held her there, like a director who had just positioned an actress just where he needed her to stand.

Standing at her full height now, in possession of all her powers, her voice grew stronger yet, and at last alighted on a glittering high Fa, stretching it until it was as thin as possible like a sheet of gold.

The whole action had seemed to come from outside her; she would never have thought she was capable of creating such beauty of her own volition. Her hands went to her throat in astonishment.

Erik merely smiled, satisfied - pleased but unsurprised. "Well done," he murmured. "Bravissima."

Pride coursed through her. She craved his praise more than any applause from Paris' elite or any jewels emperors could bestow upon her. For his genius was what had catalyzed her apotheosis. His limitless high standards were precisely the level of greatness she had always aspired to herself.

His green eyes fixed on hers, he took both her hands and led her tenderly forwards.

"And here we are," he said. "This is my realm, illusion's domain. A kingdom where all must pay homage to music."

As he helped her up the steps toward the piano, the thought suddenly occurred to her it felt almost like he was leading her to the altar. Candlelight, incense - in some ways, this ethereal scene was much like how she had pictured that day for them - or night, if he still liked the idea of a midnight ceremony.

She could practically imagine the wedding march playing.

When he began fiercely attacking the pipe organ he'd assembled down there, throwing up immense, powerful chords that seemed to shake the very foundations of the city, the impression grew still stronger.

The thought made her blush at her own haste. The marriage at the mayor's office would be happening very soon, it was true, but their wedding, their real wedding, might not be for months yet. There was much to plan, especially if now he would agree for her to invite her friends, as she hoped. _You are getting ahead of yourself, Christine._

* * *

Fortunately for her overactive imagination, soon he switched to the gentler tones of the piano. Eventually he abandoned the instrument altogether and sang for her, something hauntingly beautiful that he had composed for her, that he called the Music of the Night.

She stood spellbound by the melody. Each note seemed to melt into her. She was floating, she was falling. How was it possible that she had inspired something so beautiful?

"Help me make the Music of the Night," he finished at last, kneeling before her and kissing the outstretched palm of her hand. "Forever and a day."

"I will," she pledged, gently pulling him to his feet.

He folded her into an embrace.

"What was it you wanted to sing?" he murmured after a moment.

"Oh, yes. I had forgotten. It is called _Depuis Le Jour_. Have you heard it?"

"No, I confess I have not."

"Good."

Smiling, she pulled away, though she tugged him along behind her with one hand, and moved to the piano. After finding the note she needed, she began to sing the aria she had been wanting to perform for him since weeks ago.

It was a soft and gentle piece, not overtaxing to the voice, its floating melody infused with a delicate, airy splendor.

 _Ever since the day when I gave myself,_

 _My destiny seems all aflower._

 _What a beautiful life!_

 _My dream was not a dream!_

 _Love spreads its wings over me_

 _In the garden of my heart_

 _There sings a new joy_

Everything shimmers,

 _Everything rejoices in my triumph_

 _Around me everything is light and joy_

 _And I tremble deliciously_

 _At the charming memory_

 _Of the first day_

 _Of love!_

* * *

 _ **END OF CHAPTER 26.** Thank you so much for reading!_


	27. Rallentando

**_Chapter 27 - Rallentando_**

* * *

"Mon rêve, there is something I must tell you," he said at length.

He had built a fire and they were resting before the hearth, nestled in a mound of sumptuous velvet cushions he called a Turkish corner, with a bottle of wine between them. Alone and safe in a halo of light amid the darkness of the cave beyond, it had felt like they were hanging suspended in a world of their own, somewhere between Heaven and earth.

Hours had effortlessly flowed by. He'd taken up a lute he'd been trying to compose with and played her a few pieces, and then she'd asked to learn and, hands resting on hers, his arms around her, he'd shown her a few chords. She learned swiftly, and soon the house by the lake reverberated with soft, sweet music; he'd listened, bewitched, as she blended the chords with her voice.

At length, tired, she put the instrument aside and curled up against him and he'd listened, perfectly content, tracing her fingers with his and occasionally murmering a reply, as she murmured her dreams to him, all the places she hoped they might travel together, the music she longed to perform, and how one day she would star in the premiere of his opera (a dream they had both had been plotting together for some time).

However, at length he had fallen silent, and now he was no longer speaking in the same comfortable, easy tone as before.

"What is it?" Christine said, surprised, trying to shake herself out of her warm, comfortable stupor. The apprehensive look on his face startled her. "You may tell me anything without fear."

"I know it, but this you will not be pleased to hear. And indeed, it distresses me." He closed his arms more tightly around her.

She turned in his arms. "Now you are frightening me."

"Forgive me, Christine; I do not mean to-"

She gripped his hand. "Please, tell me at once."

He sighed heavily. "Well- if I am to stay here, I had rather postpone our marriage."

This was perhaps the only thing he could have said that could have upset her. "What?" she cried, pulling away and staring at him. "Postpone it?"

"Yes."

Christine suddenly felt as though the brightest thing in her life were being dragged away from her. "But there are only a few days left!" she said. "I have been longing for the day!"

"Yes," he said, "but-"

"-I thought you were as well!" she cried.

He stared at her in astonishment. He had expected she would be unhappy, but he had not anticipated this. "It is all I have dreamt of for months-"

"-Is it? This is not the first time you have asked to delay it."

"-But why not wait a little longer, when we have our whole lives to be happy? That was our original intention, after all."

"But you are safe now," she said.

He looked away.

"Mon cœur?" she said.

When he did not reply, her expression changed from one of anger to alarm. "You are safe now," she said, "are you not...?"

He swallowed. "I am safe from the managers and the police, it appears, but there are far more dangerous men here in France from... my old life... and they know my old name. The name on our marriage announcement. In addition... I think, for the ceremony, they would have asked me to... remove my mask... people would _see,_ Christine. And you know those damned bureaucratic fools who work for the mayor's office would not keep it to themselves... word would get out, and between that and the name... those men could find me. I know I ought to have thought of this before, but you see, the thought of... taking my mask off, it is so unimaginable to me that I did not..." He trailed off.

"I see." Christine's expression changed, her look of reproach gone. She regarded him with deep regret in her eyes. "Mon cœur, you ought to have told me it was dangerous for you. I should never have insisted upon our being married here in France."

He put a hand on her arm in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "It was not, since I was to leave immediately afterwards anyway, and they would have no idea where I was going. But now that I have the chance to stay... I should rather be near to you and not yet married, than married to you but a thousand miles apart."

"I see. Yes, I agree."

"You will not... mind?" he asked anxiously.

"I confess I do mind, yes, but I had much rather have you here with me, of course." Her face assumed a look of resolve. "We ought to go and take down the notice at once. There is no time to lose. It would be better to go at night; there will be fewer people watching-"

"-Ah. Yes." He looked to one side.

His lighthearted tone confused her. "Erik?"

"It is, of course, possible that, er, a strong wind blew it down recently," he said.

"What? Erik!-"

"-Shortly after Monsieur Joseph Masson received word that he had achieved resounding musical success."

"Erik! You did not tell me of this!" she cried. "Was I then to appear at the mayor's office on the appointed day only to be informed that the marriage could not take place because our banns had somehow mysteriously disappeared? You can, I imagine, see where that might be a somewhat distressing development."

He smiled faintly. "Of course. If you had still wanted to be married after this... discussion, I would have put the notice back up in time."

"Oh. I see."

"I kept it safe." He rose and took the paper from his desk, drawing it out of the marbled portfolio where he kept the few official documents that had attached to him over the course of his irregular existence. There was his birth certificate, which he had returned one night to his mother's house to steal - she had never known he was there, nor, it seemed, noticed it was missing later, for no report had ever been filed in their little town of the theft. The check with his winnings from the music competition. And now this, their marriage notice. By far his favorite, even if it was effectively null now.

Christine studied it wistfully for a moment. "Mon cœur," she said at last, looking up, "the next time something like this happens-"

He laughed darkly. "-Oh, I hope nothing like this will ever happen ag-"

"-When it does," she cut him off abruptly, "You ought to simply tell me. Do not go scheming and plotting without my knowledge. It does neither of us any favors."

He was taken aback. He had been coming to sit beside her, but stopped at the sharpness of her tone. "You are right," he said weakly.

Seeing that she had unsettled him, that he had moved away, she reached out and gently took his hand. He tentatively squeezed hers in return, and a certain calmness was restored between them.

"Are we to leave France, then?" Christine asked after a moment, thinking back over their conversation up to that point. "Once my contract runs out?"

"It is essential," he said. "In fact, I confess the only reason I remained here as long as I have was for wanting to be near you, Christine." He paused. "I am sorry to tear you away from your life here-"

She put a hand over his. "-No- this is exactly what I had hoped for."

"Oh?"

"I had much rather go and begin a new life somewhere else," she said. "I have been thinking. There is nothing here I shall truly regret leaving behind."

"Nothing?"

"Except perhaps my father's grave, and as for that, I think it may be better for me not to be so close, not to be able to always be going there."

"But... your friends here..." he said. "The Girys..."

"I think Meg will soon be married," Christine said. "And then who knows where she will go." She smiled wistfully.

"Ah, yes. I am glad for her. But... what about Madame Giry?"

A pang of sadness stole through Christine. "What about Madame Giry?" she said dully.

"I do not like to take you away from her. It would be a fine way for me to repay her kindness."

"I do not think it will distress her," Christine said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

He looked at her in surprise. "Have you... quarreled?"

"Ah... no... it is simply... I have grown older; I am more independent, I have my own opinions now... and I think there are some things she and I shall never see eye to eye on," Christine explained. _It isn't quite a lie_ , she told herself to stave off the pangs of guilt that immediately assailed her. And it was for Erik's sake.

He eyed her uncertainly. It was evident to both of them that this explanation had not been sufficient to explain the bitterness in her tone.

She had the impression that he could see the gaps in her reply.

It was an uncomfortable feeling.

"In any case," she went on hesitantly, "I do not want her to always feel she must worry about me. She looked after me as though I were her own child, but I do not want to burden her."

Erik's expression changed. "That I can understand," he said quietly.

The feeling that she might successfully have deceived him only made Christine feel even more guilty. She did not want to become practiced in the craft of concealing things from him. To change the subject, she took the marriage notice from his hand. She looked fondly at their two names printed next to one another. "What shall we do with this now?"

"I think perhaps you should keep it. You may... put it in your scrapbook or something," he said wryly.

The idea of a soul as wild as hers submitting to something as dainty and fastidious as keeping a scrapbook was so absurd that Christine burst into laughter, and he swiftly followed.

"Ah, indeed! Yes - a tender memento of our marriage ceremony which did not take place!" she laughed. "One of my most treasured memories!"

He grinned. "I hear it was a splendid affair."

"Yes, the event of the season, as it happened," she joined in. "Mountains of flowers, rivers of champagne."

"The bride was exquisite." He kissed her gently.

She smiled. "The groom cut a most dashing figure indeed. With his top hat, his butonnière, his lavender gloves-"

"- _Lavender gloves_?" Erik exclaimed, as though she had suggested he arrive wearing a doublet and hose.

She stopped and peered at him in confusion, surprised by his tone. "Yes, of course. What else?"

"You would not catch me dead wearing lavender gloves, Mademoiselle," he said. "I shall wear white gloves as befits a man of my dignity and position, and that is the end of the matter, I say."

"But you must!" she protested. "It is-"

"-What makes you imagine that I would do anything of the sort? It is out of the question."

"-It is traditional!"

"Why did you not say so before?" he scoffed. "If the folly of society demands that men blindly submit to an absurd custom like lambs being led to the slaughter, then of course I shall do it!"

"Laugh as much as you choose. I shall have my way in the end, in this matter."

They laughed.

But then, as suddenly as though a weight had been dropped on them, the mirth fell away. Worry descended like a storm moving in.

The emotion they had expended a few minutes before still hung around them in a noxious cloud, and their halfhearted jokes and uneasy laughter felt as ineffective as spraying perfume into the air.

They stopped laughing and heaved a sigh at the same time.

They looked at each other uneasily and both knew one thing: Christine was still unhappy.

"I think," she said, "Perhaps we had better go."

He nodded mutely and reluctantly helped her to her feet.

They agreed to return to the surface by way of the Rue Scribe gate, and made much of the journey in silence.

Christine found she had run out of things to say. What was there to be done?

The hope of their wedding had been the spot of brightness that had carried her through the week, and now that it was extinguished for the time being she felt cold. It had felt to her like perhaps their marriage would be the end of their ordeal of secrecy - no one would be able to keep them apart afterwards, she hoped, so perhaps, just perhaps, people wouldn't bother to try; they could finally be left in peace.

She wanted so much to have this sealed. To have it set down in law so no-one could undo it. Then at last there would be something they could be certain about, something fixed and unchangeable. And most of all, she wanted it to have God's blessing. Any divine intervention in this whole affair would be welcome. They needed all the help they could get.

And yes, perhaps - she admitted it to herself for the first time - she was beginning to fear he did not want to marry her. He loved her, of that she was certain, but he seemed so afraid of the future. Was he prepared for it?

Erik's hand sought hers in the darkness, and she took hold of it gladly, savoring its reassuring warmth.

"It cannot be easy being engaged to me, mon rêve," he ventured at length, his voice hesitant. "Can you forgive me?"

Christine scrounged for a smile, and found she'd recovered enough to produce a small one. "Perhaps," she said, her wit rising weakly. "If you wear the lavender gloves."

* * *

 **End of Chapter 27. Thank you so much for reading!**


	28. La Bohème

Chapter 28

* * *

After reaching the street, they caught a cab back to her appartement straightaway.

Now that they were up in the open air, Christine's head seemed to clear. She recalled that she was angry with him - or at any rate that she ought to be. Smoldering inside her was the fear that he did not truly want to marry her, that this was all some pleasant amusement to him.

Though she was not sure how to broach the subject of their postponed wedding, she could not let it pass; she needed to speak with him about what happened to them now. She could not let things between them regress to the way they had been when they were first engaged - that time had been blissful, yes, but giddy and uncertain.

They sat side by side in awkward silence, still hardly speaking - neither of them truly angry, but still unable to think of anything to say to one another.

When the cab clattered to a stop at her street, they exchanged a few generic words of affection and farewell. She turned and gave him what was meant to be a kiss goodbye.

But it was colder than usual, and they both felt it. They looked at each other for a moment in silence, and both understood one thing: They couldn't leave things like this.

Then, her hand around his. "Will you come up with me?" she said sweetly, turning back, and pulling his head down toward her as he peered out, so the driver couldn't see them. "No-one will see at this time of night."

He hesitated.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Your flatmate...?" he murmured.

The cab horse, impatient, stamped its hooves and blew steam like an idling locomotive. The driver stared over his shoulder at Erik, trying to make out what they were saying.

The hairs on the back of Erik's neck prickled. Though he hated himself for it, he was already planning - indeed, he had planned before the cab had left the Opéra - how he could incapacitate him if he became too inquisitive.

He was an enemy soldier in a world where everyone was a spy.

"No," Christine said, bringing him back to the present, "Babette works nights. That is why I hardly ever speak of her - she and I never see one another. In fact, it is an ideal arrangement."

"Very well." At last Erik haltingly descended, concealing his mask with the collar of his coat.

Christine paid the cabdriver and turned toward her appartement. Erik followed after her eagerly, catching one of her hands in his. To his relief, she did not pull away, but moved closer to him.

Soon they had reached her building. A rat ran in front of them as they crossed the threshold. Erik maneuvered Christine protectively out of the way, looking alarmed, as though it were an immense rabid dog rather than a scraggly rodent.

"Aren't they paying you enough at the Opéra?" he said to her, as they began to mount the six flights of stairs to her appartement.

"Oh, yes," she said. "A little better, at any rate. But why should I spend the money? Besides, there is not a better view in the city, you'll see." She raised a finger knowingly. "They cannot charge more for it because rich people do not want to climb stairs."

He chuckled appreciatively.

As they reached the third floor, suddenly a woman burst out of one of the appartements onto a landing.

Erik ducked into the shadows, hoping he could pass unnoticed. But it was not to be. Women, he had found, were well-attuned to their surroundings. Like him, they were obliged to be.

She squinted suspiciously at his unfamiliar figure in the half-darkness.

With no-one to hide him, he froze in a panic. Normally when faced with danger, he knew what to do. But with people like this who you couldn't simply knock unconscious - he had never struck a woman and he'd vowed he would never sink that low - it wasn't so simple.

Before he could think further, Christine grabbed his shoulders, pulled him into the corner and kissed him deeply - an entirely different kiss, by necessity, from the hesitant one outside the cab just now.

There was a tense moment. Christine, who had not closed her eyes, watched anxiously.

At last the lady turned away from them in disgust, muttering something about 'all these independent young women these days'.

As her footsteps faded away, Christine pulled back and peered down the stairwell. "Madame Lafarge. That's her gotten rid of, the old dragon," she said at last, satisfied.

He smiled at her in a daze, still in awe of her.

"Don't think this means I am not still cross with you," she warned him, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Then I hope you shall be cross with me more often," he said under his breath.

"I shall deal with you later-" She stopped. "What?"

"I did not say anything." He smiled.

She stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment and then turned and resumed the climb with a new energy, pressing her wait into the steps as though each one had done her a great personal wrong. She pulled ahead of him.

"You know," she said, beginning to run out of breath, "If you would let me come and live with you, I would not have to make this climb every day."

He looked at her in surprise and alarm. "It is out of the question," he said. "To be down there in the darkness all the time... it would kill you. And I could not bear it."

"It did not kill you," she said.

He sighed. "It would have eventually, you have my word."

She sighed sadly.

Eventually they reached the top floor, if it could even be described as that - a short, narrow passage with a sloped ceiling and only one door at the end.

Even if there had been others, he would have guessed at once which one was hers, by the sign tacked to the door that read ' _Abandon hope all ye who enter here'._

"We have arrived," Christine said.

Suddenly she let out a groan, and as Erik stepped forward, he saw the reason; an immense package was blocking the way to her door.

"Babette! I am going to kill that girl!" Christine grumbled. Then, peering at the label, "Oh... no... it is not for Babette. It says... For Mademoiselle X. And there is no return label. This is peculiar." She stood up in confusion.

"I shall help you get it inside," he said.

"I don't know if we should do that," she said. "It might be a bomb. As a matter of fact, in this part of the city, it is not out of the question." She drew toward it, intrigued by the possibility.

He smiled. His wonderful, mad Christine, so restrained and demure on the outside, but inside as drawn to darkness and chaos as he was. There was a part of him that hoped that one day that wildness would break forth in full.

"I am sorry to disappoint you," he said, "But I have it on good authority that it is not a bomb."

"How can you know that-?" Christine's posture changed. She looked up at him, smiling. "No?"

"Yes; in fact, I am quite certain."

Her smile widened. "Let me see," she said briskly, beginning to analyze how to get it inside. "If you could push from the other end, then-"

She stopped as he stepped in front of her and hoisted it smoothly up onto his shoulder with a single fluid motion. Her eyes lit up in surprise.

 _Erik, you besotted fool,_ he thought to himself. He had always thought it undignified when young men blatantly showed off for their sweethearts, and yet here he was doing precisely the same thing. Christine would no doubt see through what he was doing and think him absurd.

"Well. Heavens," she said, eyeing him admiringly. "Are you sure you are not Jean Valijean?"

Instantly, he changed his mind and decided his little bit of showmanship had been worth it. "I am a better thief than he was," he said modestly, and he hauled it into her appartement, nimbly swinging it down to rest on a table by the door.

"Thank you, mon cœur." After lighting a lamp, Christine shut the door.

He looked around them curiously, taking in his first glimpse of her home.

As she had said, it boasted a particularly fine window, the curtains wide to showcase the view beyond, and indeed he could see how splendid it must be during the day, though at this time of night all he could see was the distant glow of gaslamps from busier parts of the city.

Apart from that, it was a typical Parisian garret, dull and pleasantly cramped, though a few artfully placed, vast paper fans on the wall took away from the shabbiness. Two narrow iron bedsteads were wedged into the corners at the far end of the room, beneath another, tiny window. He guessed which was Christine's by the vast collection of books balanced unevenly on a shelf above it, next to a small violin of miserable quality.

A tiny stove near the door seemed the only source of warmth in the room; it stood beside a rickety table piled haphazardly with various foodstuffs and a collection of tin plates and mugs. He winced when he saw that. He would have to do something about that - he couldn't bear the thought of his wife having to drink her coffee from a tin mug.

By the door squatted the only remaining piece of furniture in the room, an immense armchair, almost a loveseat, that might once have been yellow, and looked as though it had seen at least six previous owners.

It was not, altogether, what he would have guessed her home was like. Though perhaps that was to be expected, as he would have imagined her descending every day from some heavenly palace, if he had to describe the kind of place where he thought she might have come from. It would have been difficult for him to situate her in any mortal environment.

And yet, now that he looked at it, and her in it, it fit her perfectly. It was comfortable and bohemian, a warm, quiet refuge from the pandemonium of the city. A cozy nest, where dwelt the most delightful creature the world had ever seen.

It was also in disaster. Much like her practice-room, books, papers, clothes, and music were scattered everywhere. The opposite of his lair, where every sheet of music had a home.

"Here," Christine said, perching on the arm of the chair and patting the seat beside her. "It is more comfortable than it looks."

He joined her gladly, easing himself down onto the cushions.

To his astonishment, it did not collapse beneath their weight.

"Now tell me - what have you done now?" Christine said, sliding into his lap - as though it were the most natural thing in the world! as though he were a man like any other! - and gesturing to the trunk with a smile.

"I don't know what you are talking about." He put his arm about her waist. "I have never seen this before in my life."

She laughed, draping an arm about his shoulders and putting her face up close to his. "What is it?" Her breath was warm on his lips.

He kissed her. "I don't know."

"Mm. Is it... a dog?"

"I should hope not, given the fashion in which I handled it just now."

She chuckled.

"Besides," he said, "Dogs are such dirty creatures." He shuddered delicately.

"It is unfortunate that you feel way, mon cœur, for we are going to have several."

"We certainly are not! They carry disease. It is out of the question; I will not hear of it-"

"-Where have I left the scissors?" Christine said brightly, leaping up. And she began muttering to herself and turning over papers.

"-You are avoiding a most important discussion."

"There is no discussion to be had, mon cœur," she said in a sweet voice. "We shall have dogs."

"I do not like to disagree with you in any matter, but we shall have cats - and only one at a time. In any case, you need not open the thing now," he said, suddenly bashful. "I did not expect it would arrive today-"

"-Oh, but I must," she said. "We cannot sit here while I am wondering what it is. Aha!" She snatched the scissors out from under a sack of onions - what they could possibly have been doing there, he didn't know.

"Have a care," he said, as Christine began fiendishly hacking at the box with the scissor blades.

He came to hover nervously beside her. In a few moments, she had reduced the box to shreds and the contents were laid bare.

 ** _Chapter 28 to be continued. Thank you so much for reading!_**


	29. La métamorphose

**_Chapter 29_**

* * *

 _Est-que c'est toi?_

 _Non, ce n'est plus ton visage;_ _C'est la fille d'un roi;_

 _Ah, s'il me voyait ainsi!_ _Comme une demoiselle_

 _Il me trouverait belle!_ _Achevons la métamorphose!_

Is that me? No, it is no longer my face;

It is the daughter of a king!

Oh, if he saw me like this,

how beautiful he would think me!

Let us complete the transformation!

-Charles Gounod, _Faust_

* * *

Inside, she found a large mahogany trunk, its lid and sides inlaid with panels of embroidered silk.

She looked up at him with wide eyes and the beginnings of a smile. "Erik...!"

"Are you familiar with this custom?" Erik asked.

"Is it a _corbeille_ , is it not? I have seen them in shop windows."

"Indeed you are quite correct."

"We have wedding-chests in Sweden," she said, "though we do not call them that. But ... Erik! You did not have to... this extravagance!"

"No self-respecting Frenchman could marry without bestowing a _corbeille de mariage_ on his bride-to-be." He smiled.

"Oh, mon coeur, you are too good. But-"

"-Do not say another word about expenses. What I do with my own earnings is my affair."

"You are in the right," she agreed.

"I am allowed to spoil my fiancée." He smiled.

"I am too wise to object to that."

He laughed.

"Besides," she said teasingly, "I know that within a few months you will revert to your usual irascible self, so I shall enjoy this while it lasts; I know it will not be forever."

"Indeed I shall not. I object most strongly to that assessment - most strongly indeed."

"We shall see." Christine opened the lid and peered inside the trunk. "Ah! - A letter!" She held up an elegant parchment envelope. "Let us see what the writer has to say."

"Pray don't," he said in a pained voice.

She smiled and sweetly ignored this request, flicking open the envelope's wax seal with a practiced hand. " ' _Ma promise,"_ she read, when she had withdrawn its contents, I _know how you hate extravagance, but I hope you will allow me this indulgence."_ She looked up. "You are blushing."

"How could you possibly know that?" he said triumphantly. At least being obliged to wear a mask all the time was useful for _something_!

She grinned. "It is easy to tell. Your ears are red."

Alarmed, he put a hand to his ear. Indeed, it had gone warm. Good god, how embarrassing.

"But why, mon amour?" she said, her voice kind. "You write beautifully."

"I am sure I do not know what you are talking of."

"That you write beautifully?" she laughed.

"No- I do write beautifully, you are correct in that assessment. But you are mistaken as to the color of my ears. They have not gone red in the slightest. I would never allow something so undignified to happen."

Christine couldn't tell if he was joking or not. At last, she smiled and shrugged and went on. " ' _In addition to the customary assorted frou-frou and et cetera, I have included a gown for you, to replace the one which was ruined by my carelessness-' "_ She broke in, "-Poor Erik, as if that were in any way your fault. And as if you were not the one who bought it for me in the first place!"

He shrugged. "You had better keep it, all the same. I will not be wearing it."

Christine laughed. "What a notion!"

When she had regained some measure of her composure, she went on. "' _I have omitted the traditional prayer-book and_ rosaire _, as you would, you will forgive me for observing, I think not have much use for them. You are clever enough to come up with your own prayers, unlike we dull Catholics, it seems.'_ You are quite right there. _'I have left out the customary sewing-supplies as well.'_ Ah, yes, you know how dreadfully I have neglected my embroidery. I can mend stockings and sew pointe-shoe ribbons with the best of them, of course, but that is all."

"You have employed your time much better. It would be a waste for an artist like you to fritter her time away on embroidery."

"Thank you, mon cœur. How glad I am that you do not see these things the way the rest of the world seems to." Christine looked down at the paper. " _And now nothing remains but to assure you again of my immeasurable regard.'"_ She smiled. "Well, then. Let me assure you of mine in return." She kissed him, resting her hand on the curve of his cheek as she pulled away.

"Well. Go on, go ahead and disembowel it, then, if you are determined," he said at last, his fondness barely concealed.

She turned in the circle of his arm, and pulled aside the leaves of tissue lining the trunk to reveal its contents.

He had, as she would have expected, guessed at just the sort of things she would have wanted when setting up a home. There was a beautifully carved rosewood music stand, cleverly constructed so that it folded up to fit in the trunk, a metronome, a splendid silver-framed mirror so she could monitor herself as she sang, and a stack of new music for her to peruse. From the eighteenth century, it appeared - her favorite.

There were the traditional things one would expect to find in a corbeille. A fan, a cashmere shawl - those were indispensable, the heart of any corbeille - a cedar glove box. Perfume - of course, this was France - that smelled like jasmine blossoms (she hated the violet fragrance that most Parisian girls were wearing) and came in a tiny filigree bottle that looked like a phial of fairy potion. Tablecloths and bed-linens embroidered with their initials. Handkerchiefs and a hand mirror monogrammed with her new ones, CDM. When she read the letters, her heart fluttered. Erik would never admit in so many words that he had given in to what she wanted - but there it was. Christine Daae Masson. At least in private, she would be Madame Masson, as she'd wished. She delicately traced the letters with her finger, a tender smile playing over her lips.

As she examined the bed-linens she could feel Erik's eyes on her. She licked her lips. In her mind she could imagine their bodies entwining, defenseless and silent. Her pulse stirred. The blood beat in her veins. She looked up at him and smiled suggestively. She was not coquettish by nature, but Meg had seen to it that she learned to flirt as well as any native-born Parisienne.

Erik's ears turned more red than they ever had before. "I simply ordered the corbeille and told them what initials we wanted," he stammered, hardly knowing what he was saying. "I did not know they would include those, ah... I was not thinking..."

"Haven't you thought of that?" she said, smiling. "Someone ought to."

"No... Well, yes - well that is-"

"After all, we are going to need these things," she pressed.

"Yes, I suppose - ah, well, er, as a matter of fact, er, that is to say-"

"I intend to make good use of them, don't you?"

"Yes," Erik said. Then, in a panic, "No! Er, that is..." He looked away, tugging uncomfortably at his jacket.

Smiling, she looked away, unperturbed, and hummed demurely. She had tormented him enough for now. There would be plenty of time for that later.

"Ah- see if there is anything else in the trunk," he prompted at last.

She looked at him in surprise. She had thought the trunk was empty.

However, as she turned and examined it more closely, she saw that had missed something at the bottom. What she had taken for a colored lining, she now saw, was a sheaf of robin's-egg-blue tissue paper.

Without realizing it, she caught her breath. She had an inkling, a hope, of what this might be. When she pulled back the leaves of tissue, her guess was confirmed: a wedding-veil.

In a moment she had it out of the trunk. It came free with a soft whisper.

She turned to Erik and held it out.

He drew away a little. "Is it bad luck for me to see you...?"

"No. Well, I don't think so. I think that is just the gown." She paused.

"Ah. Well, in that case." He took the veil and carefully shook out its fragile folds before arranging it over his arm.

"Mon cœur?" Christine said.

He looked up. "Yes, mon rêve?"

"Does that superstition include seeing me _just_ before? In the church?"

He thought. "Well, I suppose traditionally the groom does not see the bride until she is walking up the aisle. I am not certain at what precise moment the bad luck ceases to be a threat, however." He smiled wryly.

"Ah." Christine paused. "I see."

"What is it?" he asked.

"Do you tend to be superstitious?"

"I think we need all the luck we can get."

"Oh." She frowned.

"Why do you ask?"

"Well..." she said, "I have been meaning to ask you... I know it is not how things are done in this country, but I should like for us to walk down the aisle together."

"Together." He looked thoughtful, but did not reject the idea. "Ah- why, precisely?"

"It is how it is always done in Sweden. And no-one 'gives' the bride to the groom, you see - they go to the altar together, as equals. My father would never have have let me be 'given away' to anyone. And that is why no-one shall be 'giving' me to you - I am freely choosing my husband, as I have a right to. I want that to be apparent to all."

He looked up at her with an expression of transcendent gratitude. "Then that is just what we shall do, mon rêve," he said in a choked voice.

She beamed. "Oh, I _am_ glad!"

She fell into a reverent silence as with trembling hands he settled the veil on her head. The folds rain down her face cathedral-style, gently blurring her features like a mist. He kissed her tenderly on the forehead through the delicate lace.

The light was dim, so he led her to the window and held up the hand-mirror for her. When Christine saw her reflection, which she scarcely recognized - it was like something from a dream - at last it all became real to her.

She let out a gasp.

It was impossible not to be reassured, she thought, as she threw her trembling arms around Erik. He wouldn't have done this - and the veil in particular; he certainly wouldn't have encouraged her to try it on - if he didn't mean to go on with the marriage.

All at once she realized he still had not seen her properly.

She pulled away and looked at him, the moonlight falling full on her face so he could see her at last.

When he saw her, he made a sound that might have been a sob.

Before she could read his expression, he abruptly pulled into his arms and held her so tightly she could barely breathe. She could feel his own breathing, quick and overwrought.

They stood like that for a long moment. He seemed to have forgotten where they were. She hoped no-one was looking.

At last he released her when she gently squeezed his arm.

"I am not sure I was quite prepared for the sight, mon rêve," he said in a weak voice. "To think you are to be my wife... my own dear wife... to stand before me like this... It is like a dream."

Christine saw her moment. "With a wedding date to look forward to, it would not seem so unreal."

He seized her hands, an eager smile spreading over his face. "The day your contract expires... That same night we shall fly to... wherever it is you want to go - and that night, or the very next, we _shall_ be married."

Relief flooded through Christine, as though an enormous balloon had been punctured inside her chest. "March the twenty-ninth. My last performance is that night. I can take the very next train to... wherever you wish."

"Then March the thirtieth it shall be."

She kissed him, a long, lingering kiss, with movements like a sonata, that began andante, then moved to allegretto and then vivace. At last he pulled away, startled by her intensity. She rested a hand on his shoulder, looking deep into his eyes.

He traced a finger along her cheek.

Christine leaned her head against his chest. "Wherever I want to go?" she said after a moment, recalling something he had said.

"Hm?"

"You said 'where I want to go'?"

He shrugged elaborately. "I have no attachment to anyplace. Besides, any rational husband knows it is wisest to keep his wife happy, I daresay."

"Then... what do you think of Stockholm, my love?" She pulled away and looked him in the eyes. "They have a respectable opera company there. Even you could not find fault with them."

"The Kunlinga Opera."

"Yes." She smiled appreciatively. "The very one. I have been meaning to write and request an audition."

"You want to return to Sweden, then?" he said.

"Yes. It is what I have wanted for many years, in fact. Things are different there," she said, her voice suddenly passionate. "They are better... better for ladies... A lady may go to university there, if she wishes, and vote in municipal elections."

"That is admirable."

"Oh, I am glad you agree," she said happily. "And I think you would find you were better-treated there, too, my dearest. It is a peaceable country, not like here. We have not fought a war in over a hundred years."

"It sounds ideal. And I should like to see your homeland."

She beamed. "Then my happiness is now complete. I have nothing left to wish for. Thank you, mon cœur!"

"You have nothing to thank me for. Everything I value shall be going with me." He tenderly kissed her cheek.

She blinked back tears.

"I am relieved," she said at last, sinking into the chair, where he gladly joined her. "With all due respect to you and Meg and Madame Giry, this country is miserable. I should not have liked to think of bringing up a child here."

Erik froze. "What?"

* * *

 **This seems as good a place as any to end Chapter 29. Chapter 30 coming soon!**

 **Thank you so much for reading!**

 **Thank you so much adreamama, Syri Reed, Lady Myth, afaiths21, Child of Dreams, Bonpetitepoodles, Charlotte, Inna Morati (heh, heh, I see what you did there!), Leil3, and BlossomofEdelweiss (great username! are you a sound of music fan?), for your reviews and input! It means so much to me and keeps me going! Thank you Crys as always for your friendship and support. : x**

 **Inna Morati, your kind words made me legit cry! My jaw dropped when I saw it! Wow! I want you to know I am probably putting it up on my wall!**


	30. Sempre Reietto

Chapter 30

* * *

Erik's mind reeled."My dear girl," he said, his voice shaking with incredulity, "You cannot seriously suppose-"

"-I hope you never call me that again!" Christine cried furiously. "I am not some mere 'girl', and I obviously am not very dear to you at all when you speak to me thus!"

"Forgive me," he said with an effort. "Now, as I was saying - you cannot suppose that I would entertain the notion of my fathering a child-"

"-What?"

"-or whatever ghastly creature would be the result of such a catastrophe," he finished, smiling grimly.

Christine stared at him with a look of astonishment that bewildered him completely. "Mon cœur," she said at last, "You never mentioned to me that you did not intend to- "

"-Yes, _naturellement_ I did not mention it, because it ought to be obvious!"

"Why should it be?" she said angrily. "You and I love one another. Why should we not have a child together?"

He gave a harsh laugh. "Are you blind?"

"Your concern is that it might take after you, then, I take it?"

Erik smirked. "How nicely you put it. Yes, the thought had occurred to me, once or twice."

"It might not inherit your condition," she pointed out, saddened by his bitterness. "We do not know that it is hereditary."

"We cannot risk it."

"But-"

"-Er, you do know, of course, I presume," Erik interrupted, "that there are ways of... ways of preventing..." His ears had gone redder than ever before.

Christine, in spite of her distress, laughed. "Naturellement. But-" She stopped. She had been going to point out that no safeguard was perfect, but she caught herself at the last moment. He must know it already - but if she pointed it out at a time like this, he was in such a state that he might decide they ought to eschew the finer pleasures of the married state altogether, and that was a possibility too horrifying even to contemplate.

"Ah," Erik said awkwardly. "And you are... not opposed to such...?"

"No, indeed! I don't intend to have fifteen children, thank you!"

"Thank God," he said, rubbing his neck in embarrassment.

"Yes. But mon cœur..." As Christine's laughter died down, her voice took on an unexpected pleading note.

"What is it?" he said.

"It had of course already occurred to me as well that it might take after you. That did not deter me... it does not mean..." She took his hand. "I love you madly, desperately. And I would love your child, love it to distraction, no matter what it looked like. I hope you know that already. I should be delighted for us to have a child together, if it was what you wanted."

He smiled at her, looking a bit taken aback. "You are an angel."

"No." She kissed his hand. "I simply love you; that is all."

"Thank you. But the essential question," he said, "is not what I would want." He stopped. "Had things been different, perhaps I might have liked..." He stopped, suddenly overwhelmed again by thoughts of what their life could have been like had he only been normal. He had never thought he wanted a child, but seeing Christine, seeing her sweet face before him, sent a wave of longing sweeping through him. He was seized by a vision of her running up to him, whispering in his ear, him picking her up and whirling her around, and then by the thought of a little girl with her curls and her lovely brown eyes. Suddenly he could hardly breathe.

"Erik?" Christine said.

No. It was impossible. Why regret what could not be? He choked back the chaotic mix of emotions surging through him. "You see," he said in a strangled voice, "the things I have endured... Forgive me, Christine, but you cannot entirely understand the sort of life I have been forced to lead til now-"

"-Perhaps I could, if you would tell me of the life you have known- there is so little I know-"

"-But you see, I do not want you to know!" he said. "There is no reason to burden you - it would be useless; it would only cause you pain. Suffice it to say, Christine, it would be wrong to risk allowing another person to be exposed to such miseries. To bring a child into the world knowing full well what it might be subjected to. No matter how much we might love our child, no matter how much happiness it may bring us - it would not be fair."

"Oh." Christine looked away, seeming to shrink into herself a little. "I understand," she said at last, in a much smaller voice.

"What is the matter?" he said. "I did not think you were even fond of children."

"Nor am I, not particularly. Not until they are a little older, and can hold a conversation, and be left by themselves for awhile if need be."

"You never talk of them like other women do," he pressed. "And you had not mentioned our having children, not once."

"No. You are right. I merely assumed, because it is what people assume; it is what is done... but I had never..."

"-Then what have you to be distressed about?" he said irritably.

At last she looked up at him, and to his shock her face was awash with tears. He could scarcely have been more horrified if they had been blood. He stared at her in mute terror.

"Do you mean to say," she said, "if you had your whole life to live over again, knowing all you know now, after everything you have experienced... you would choose not to be born?"

"What?"

"-What about your wife-to-be? What about your Christine, who loves you tenderly? If I have not at least managed to make you feel your own life has been worth the living, then I have failed you utterly!" Her voice caught.

"Mon rêve...!" Erik's hands shook. He took her face in both his hands, carefully, as though she were very fragile. "My God… what must you be thinking… that is not what I meant at all… No…"

She scarcely seemed to hear him.

He pulled her face close to his. "Christine, you have justified everything for me!"

Christine felt her face crumple in a sob of relief. "Thank God," she whispered feebly, collapsing into his arms. "Thank God." She kissed him with infinite gentleness, and he tasted the salt of her tears. "But then what do you mean by...?"

"...But Christine, don't you see? - there is no one - no one - like you."

"I don't understand," she said in a voice weak from crying, her arms still around him.

"But you do - you know it all too well," he said sadly. "You do not want to admit it - you are too modest - but you know it is true. You are uniquely compassionate."

"No-"

"-I have lived my whole life without encountering a single other soul like you."

"That does not mean-"

"-No-one else could ever love a thing like this. We aren't living in the tale of the Beauty and the Beast. There is no chance that another one of me could ever find such happiness as I have."

"You do yourself a disservice, mon cœur." Christine pulled away and laid a hand around his wrist. It suddenly seemed all bones. All at once he felt terribly fragile. "You give too much credit to my angelic disposition-" Her mouth twisted gently with irony- "and not enough to your own qualities. If you think me some saintly, divine creature, then you will surely be disappointed. I am not the only woman who could have fallen in love with you, I assure you."

Erik empathically disagreed with her on this point, but he said nothing.

"Besides," Christine went on, "love comes in many forms. Whatever else happened, you and I would love our child."

"Of course, but none of that changes the essential facts..." He paused. "The child would have us, for a time, but once we were gone, once you were gone, there would be no-one."

"I see," Christine said. She stood and crossed to the window, looking blankly out into the night. "It is clear to me I cannot persuade you."

He approached her gingerly, putting a pleading hand on her shoulder. She reached her hand up to take it but did not turn round.

"Christine..." he said. "I thought you knew. I thought you understood?"

"No."

The finality of her response robbed him of any possible reply. He simply stood there, paralyzed.

She loved him so much, more than he could ever have imagined. She was so stupid.

He had not known love would make her a fool. If he had...

Whatever he might have been expecting, he could never have anticipated her next words.

"Are you disappointed with me?" she asked.

He stared at her. "Disappoint- with you? How could I ever be disappointed with you? You must never say that again."

"But you seem disgusted with me."

" _What_?"

"For thinking this - for wanting... For not knowing that you didn't want... You act as though it is some horrible perversion for me to want us to have a child together."

"No... no..." How could he make her understand? It was himself he was disgusted with. But he couldn't say it.

"You act as though I ought to have known. As though I am a fool for not knowing."

"So you ought to, I maintain, yes - but you are no fool, and nothing you could do or say could ever disgust me, Christine."

She nodded quietly, hesitantly.

There was a long silence that seemed to suck his breath away.

She took the veil off and laid it gently on her bed.

"Why don't I, ah, make us some coffee?" she said _subito_ , before he could react.

 _What_? "Ah - allow me, mon rêve," he said, coming out of his stupor. "You sit."

"No - no... Just... a moment, if you please." She brushed away the hand he reaches out to her, gently but insistently.

It was clear enough even to him that she did not want to be disturbed.

He watched as she struck a match and flung it into the belly of the stove.

"And you are resolved in this matter?" she said after a moment, not looking at him. "The matter of... our family?"

"I am," he said, though it cost him. Even at the best of times he wanted to yield to all her wishes. At this moment, when it seemed everything was at stake, he would have given anything to be able to promise her what she wanted.

But he could not.

Christine did not reply, but flung a pot down on the stove and busied herself with boiling water.

He scrutinized her delicate profile as she worked, busying herself with cups and filters and grounds, but nothing in her face gave any indication what she was thinking.

To his bewilderment, in the midst of all this she took an egg from a nearby shelf.

He watched, powerless to stop, as she cracked it into the grounds.

"What are you doing?" he cried in spite of himself.

"It clarifies the coffee," she replied impatiently.

"But-"

"-Oh, for once in your life, would you be quiet?"

He was so startled that he did indeed fall silent. He did not protest even when she poured milk, unheated, straight into the coffee, though every fiber of his French soul cried out against the outrage.

At last, she took two dented tin mugs from the table and poured half the contents of the pot into each, handing one to him.

He took a sip to placate her.

To his amazement, it was perfect, though it could not hold his attention for long.

Christine crossed to the balcony and leaned heavily against the railing. She stared out at the city. She had not said a word since snapping at him, so uncharacteristically, a few minutes before.

At last he could not contain himself anymore. "Oh, Christine, I cannot bear this - tell me at once," he pleaded, "do you still want me for your husband? Tell me you do. I would give anything-"

She whirled around and stared at him in genuine astonishment. "-How could I not?"

He looked at her in surprise. "Oh, thank God. Thank God."

She put her arms around him. "One does not stop loving someone as easily as that."

"I am sorry," he said miserably. "For all of it."

"What are you apologizing for?" she said, pulling away and looking up at him. "You certainly cannot take any of the credit for my falling in love with you. Heaven knows you did your best to prevent it." She looked out the window.

"Did I?"

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "It certainly seemed so at the time, mon cœur," she said wryly. "Why, you might as well apologize for blowing up the Bastille."

"Ah, then you haven't heard," he managed to joke weakly.

At last, she smiled.

"But mon rêve," he said, taking her hands, "What if you changed your mind one day... What if you came to hate me for this? I could not bear it."

"Erik - I could never hate you! It is impossible. It goes against my very nature."

"But you are... disappointed by this? I could not bear it if I disappointed you, Christine."

"Why... I..." She paused. The silence that followed nearly killed him.

"No," she said at last, and he could hear that she meant it. "I thought I would be, but I am not."

Hope began to rise inside him.

"I simply wanted to be sure you know I love you - and would love your child, if it came to that," she said. "Now that I know it... I find the rest is not of importance. I had always thought of bearing children as my duty. It had never occurred to me that there could be any other course of action. And now that I think on it, I confess the idea suits me very well."

"Truly?" he said, his voice weak with rising relief.

"Yes, my love," she said. "The future seems very bright this way. I had dreaded having some injury befall me, and having to leave you behind, you and perhaps our child as well... it is horrible to think of."

"Yes," he said. "I cannot bear to contemplate it."

"Yes - and now we shall never have to. And what is more, this way I shall be able to continue performing," she realized happily.

"But... you are young. You may yet change your mind."

 _Yes_ , Christine thought to herself. _Precisely_. If by some chance she did come to change her mind in the future, there was time to convince him. "I assure you," she said aloud, "I am not so young that I do not know my own heart."

He regarded her in silence, as though trying to read her expression.

"I do believe you," he said at last.

"Thank you, mon cœur. How glad I am."

"And I." He shook his head in amazement. The room suddenly seemed ten times brighter. The chill that had gripped him for the past few minutes was gone. "Great Heavens - Christine, who would have thought things could end up in this happy way because of this curse of mine?"

She smiled and happily took his hands in both of hers. "It goes to show how God intended us for one another."

"What?"

"If I had become engaged to any other man there would have been no question about the matter. I would have had to retire and that would have been the end of it - of the music, of Mozart and everything; can you imagine?" She winced. "I don't like to think of it. It shows me God does care about the music, don't you think?"

"If God did not care about music, He would not have made a splendid instrument like you."

She smiled.

"I cannot help thinking that there was some great error," he said, "that I was allowed to have someone like you."

She smiled, fondly but sadly. "The Lord does not do anything by accident. Now, after all this, perhaps you will stop thinking that having you for a husband-to-be is some terrible burden."

"Have I ever said any such thing?" he rejoined, surprised and embarrassed that she had could have seen into his mind so clearly.

She smiled sadly. "Oh- never and always."

There seemed no possible answer to this. They stood in silence for a moment.

"Let us talk of some lighter matter," she said at last, downing her coffee and rubbing a last stray tear out of her eye with the back of her hand. "I am worn out with crying. I've been absurd. Won't you forgive me for shouting?"

"Of course I forgive you. And you have been nothing of the kind - but I shall gladly talk of something else." Erik thought at last to hand her his handkerchief, which she accepted gratefully. "In fact, there is something I have been meaning to ask you - I should like for us to celebrate the New Year together at the masquerade ball."

She laughed.

"For once, I am in earnest," he said.

Her face darkened.

* * *

 ** _CHAPTER CONTINUES HERE. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!_**

* * *

"At the Opéra?" she said.

"What else would do for my fiancée than the most exclusive party in Paris?"

"But it is not safe," she said.

"What could be safer?" he pointed out. "Everyone shall be wearing a mask. It is the one day a year when I do not attract attention. It is like hiding a tree in the forest."

"Hm, I suppose that is true," she pondered. "But..."

"I must warn you, mon rêve, if you do not come, I shall go by myself. And then..."

"And then...?"

Unable to think of a warning, he settled on, "Some other young lady might see how handsome I am and steal me away from you."

"You may be joking, but that is a very real danger," she said a bit irritably. "You don't seem to understand the power you can exert over women."

"If it is any comfort to you," he said at last, "I have already gone many times-"

"-What?" Christine's eyes brightened.

"Yes, and no-one has ever suspected a thing. I cut such a distinguished figure, you see, that naturally they assumed I was one of the guests." He smiled wryly.

"Did you ever speak to me? I think I would have recognized your voice."

"Of course I didn't. For the past two years that I have been returned from Persia, I was in love with you-" The words still did not come easily, but he said them with more confidence than before- "so I was much too afraid to speak to you."

She kissed him. "Oh, what nonsense, Erik! My powers of intimidation are poor at best."

"You would be astonished, my dear Mademoiselle, how intimidating you can be. And yet, I was always trying to work up the nerve to ask you to dance."

"Were you?" she beamed.

"Oh, yes. I almost did once, but in the end I didn't dare to."

"How delightful! It is romantic indeed. What was I wearing that year?" she asked.

"You were an angel."

"Yes, I know, but what was I dressed as?" She grinned.

He laughed.

"Forgive me," she said, laughing, resting a hand on his arm. "I know what you meant. The angel costume. The theme that year was a Venetian masquerade. 1868. I would have been… eighteen that year. What, you loved me _then?_ With my frizzy hair?"

"Oh, yes."

She smiled. "That speaks well of you. I was frightfully plain back then."

"No, indeed."

"You are too good." A thoughtful expression stole over her face. "It was perhaps fortunate for you that you did not dance with me," she said after a moment, laughing.

"You would have said yes, then?" he asked eagerly, gauchely.

"Certainly." She smiled. "I wish you had asked. I would have fallen in love with you then and we would have been spared all this trouble. Why, we might have been married by now."

He smiled. "It seems unlikely. The thought of two more years with you is delightful, but I am too grateful that things have turned out the way they have to wish them any different."

She smiled. "Thank you, mon cœur. Well, perhaps it is for the best - I probably would have stepped on all your toes."

"I hope your skills have improved, then, for I mean to dance every waltz with you this year."

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur - I have not said I would go," she said.

"What?"

"I had much rather stay at home, open up a bottle of wine together and celebrate the new year just you and I. We would have my appartement to ourselves, for Babette will be out dancing until dawn, and one can see the fireworks from my window, you know."

He smiled at her but said nothing.

"What?" she demanded after a moment.

He shrugged. "How dull you are," he said fondly.

She sat up straighter. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are turning into a little old Swedish grandmother."

"How dare you?" she laughed. "It is a universally acknowledged fact that I can be great fun at parties, thank you!"

"You fall asleep after a single glass of champagne."

"I will have you know my pranks are the stuff of legend!" she protested. "Do you recall the geese they found in the lobby fountain in the summer of '67?"

He smiled. "How could I forget? What of it?"

"That was my doing - all mine, I tell you!"

"No!"

"Oh, but yes. I had to buy them from a farmer!"

"Why, you minx!" cried he. "They blamed that on the Phantom! I was not even in the country at the time! I had to read about it in the papers and helplessly wonder who was besmirching my good name while I was powerless to stop it!"

"Yes. It made the gossip columns, I recall." She smoothed her skirt, smiling demurely. "One of my prouder moments."

"Why... you should not have done that! You might have lost your place at the Opéra!" he cried, horrified at the thought. What if he had come back from Persia and not known where she had gone? He might never have found her again - might never have fallen in love with her. How cold and empty his life would be still.

"Who is the little old grandmother now?" she said, smiling. "Besides, the managers appreciated the goose dinner they got out of the whole affair. A side effect I did not intend," she added, looking momentarily regretful. "Still, I suppose the unfortunate animals would have been destined for the same fate in any case."

"Monsieur Lefevre," Erik said in a tone of mock reverence. "Perhaps the most unfortunate animal of all."

Christine laughed. "I wonder how he is enjoying Australia."

Erik smirked.

"Where was it he was going, exactly?" Christine asked.

"Sydney. If he can find it," Erik said wryly.

She laughed. "He certainly never told us that - he was very secretive about the whole thing. You spied on his correspondence, didn't you?" said she, smiling.

He winked. "I had to know where he was going. What if we wanted to pay him a visit?"

They both cackled.

"What can he be doing there?" Erik mused. "They certainly will never have an opera house in a place like that."*

When their laughter died down, his eyes suddenly assumed a pleading look. "I entreat you, mon rêve. All those years it never occurred to me to imagine that one day I might be able to dance with my bride-to-be at a party. And now... to think..." He tentatively covered her hand with his; it was warm against her skin. "I am engaged to the one woman I adore above any other living soul, and... to think someday I shall finally be able to dance with you after all..."

Christine found she had to blink back tears. "What should we do for our costumes?" she said when she trusted her voice.

"Then... do you mean... Will you be...?"

She smiled and kissed him. "How could I refuse, when you asked like that?"

* * *

 **End of Chapter 30. Thank you so much for reading! Thank you so much to Syri Reed, Lady Myth, and the lovely mysterious guest readers for your reviews and feedback - it means so much to me! Chapter 31 coming soon. :) I've got the rest of the story pretty much planned out so it should flow very smoothly from here, yay!**

 ***Groan... I know, I know. Couldn't resist, sorry.**

 **Note: I took the liberty of inventing a fountain in the opera house lobby. License artistique. ;)**

 **P.S. I am open to suggestions for chapter titles. I like for them to relate to music in some way, e.g. music theory terms that have some connection to the themes of the chapter. Please feel free to pm me with any ideas if you would like, or leave them in the comments. Thank you so much!**


	31. Je Veux Vivre

"What shall we do for costumes?" Christine asked again. "I have no head for this sort of thing."

His eyes brightened. "Does this mean you shall go, then?"

"I fear I shall regret this," she said, and then, her face softening, "But yes, I shall go."

There followed a happy and busy few weeks, filled with flurried planning.

Their costumes could not match, of course, but it occurred to Christine that they could both dress as characters from the same œuvre, so at least there would be some connection. People read so little literature these days, she observed wryly, that no-one would ever notice.

He wanted to go as Poe's 'Red Death', but she flatly refused the idea, despite his petulant complaints. It would stand out too much, she insisted.

For her, on the other hand, there was no need to be so inconspicuous. He was struck with the thought of having a gown embroidered for her with the words from 'The Raven'. She was taken with the idea at once, and so it was settled. She also ordered a mask of her own, festooned with black plumes in keeping with the theme. It saddened him to see her hiding her lovely face, but he had to agree it was safer under the circumstances.

When it arrived and she tried it on in the mirror, she had a further burst of inspiration.

It took Erik several days to agree to the idea she had proposed.

The two of them gallivanting about the city together, both of them in masks and outlandish ensembles - it was almost too daring to imagine.

But she eventually brought him round - indeed, it was not difficult; he found it impossible to refuse these requests of hers. And once they'd wandered through Paris' gay and bustling streets for a few minutes one evening thus attired (with Erik clutching at a pistol under his coat the whole time and casting anxious glances at everyone they passed), he quickly changed his mind.

He was astonished by what the experiment revealed to him. Nobody stopped them to ask what they were doing. In fact, no-one gave them a second thought. Christine's presence lent him an air of legitimacy and respectability. Everyone assumed they were simply coming home from a costume party.

When they returned to her appartement later that night, flushed and laughing, Christine said she wouldn't ask him to try it again - but he insisted he wanted to go out again the next night, and the night after that.

It quickly became their routine.

Anonymous, unrecognizable, they took strolls past the Louvre, the Tuileries, Notre Dame, the Arc de Triomphe - places he had never dared to go before, for fear of being seen. Gradually his anxieties began to desert him.

He felt as though his whole life were opening up, as though a world that had been closed to him always now was almost within his reach. Surely he had died and gone to Heaven. How else could any of this have come to pass?

This newfound freedom benefitted her, too, as she was quick to assure him.

Before, it hadn't been safe for her to explore the city by herself at night. She had done it anyway, of course, for she would rather take the risk than fester at home by herself, but always her ramblings had been interrupted by some drunk demanding money or worse. Most of the time, it was less trouble to simply go about with her friends, but they were always rushing from place to place, party to party - none of them the sort who had any patience for gazing at cathedrals in the moonlight.

This was different. Now, there was no need for a troupe of ballet girls as bodyguards. Whenever miscreants saw Erik's tall, masked figure with its swirling cloak, they gave up whatever designs they might have had on Christine and wandered off in search of easier prey.

She could at long last contemplate in peace.

And he could as well.

They became each other's freedom, each better off together than apart.

Erik marveled at how his life had changed. The world seemed to be softening around him, reshaping itself just enough that perhaps it might be able to accommodate his few simple wishes in life. Might there be room it in enough for him to love someone - just one person was perfectly sufficient; he had no need for a horde of adoring friends - and spend his life devoted to her happiness? He began to hope as he had never dared hope before.

In the meantime, Christine's life too might, it seemed, finally take off from the dust where it had lingered for so long.

In an astonishing coup, the artistic director awarded her the lead in the Opéra's new production of _Roméo et Juliette._ This was no fleeting success, no mere moment in the sun. This time she was not an understudy thrown on at the last minute, or the lead forced to carry a small, undervalued production, and its likely failure, on her shoulders. It was a real principal role. Even her mind, given to self-doubts and reservations, could not find a way to reshape it as anything other than the awesome privilege and opportunity it was.

It seemed Firmin's wrath over Raoul's departure had worn down, for the managers said nothing.

La Carlotta stormed and fumed over her rival's success, but since she had previously insisted that she was sick of playing Juliette and would rather it be anyone else than her, there was little she could do.

Christine ran to tell Erik as soon as it was safe. He was almost beside himself, even happier than she was.

"Why, to hear you, mon rêve, sing ' _Je Veux Vivre Dans Ce Rêve_ '..."

"Yes," she laughed, dizzy with happiness. "That is what my mind returns to again and again. It is a tremendous honor, of course..."

"An honor you abundantly deserve."

"Thank you. And... I confess I cannot help but feel a sense of pride. But... the music."

"Yes. The music is the essential thing. I must hear your opening night. I shall be up in the gods." The gods were the highest levels of scaffolding over the stage.

"You can hear from floors below," Christine protested. "You can hear from your lair." She knew this for a fact.

Erik regretted now having shown her the telephone-like contraption he had devised to communicate with the auditorium. "Yes," he admitted, seeing no way out. "But I must watch. I must be there as you make your début. How could I not? What sort of fiancé would I be?"

"You must not think I hold you to the same expectations as other women's fiancés. Someone would catch you."

"No-one will even think to look away from the stage," he said.

"You give too much credit to my powers. I don't like to think of your fate hanging on whether or not I successfully cast a spell over the audience."

He smiled. He knew reassuring her of her beauty and talent, though she possessed both in abundance, would not convince her. But reminding her of his own abilities might, for to his chagrin she still believed in his powers infinitely more than she believed in her own. "Why do you think I was so careful in teaching you to sing? It is my insurance." He winked.

"There is something to that - it is the splendor of your genius they are really marveling at," she said, slowly coming round.

His heart leapt at her words. For a moment, he stood frozen, stunned by her praise. "Well, then... What do you say, my dear?" he said when he trusted himself to speak. "One last haunting? And then, I give you my word, the Phantom will hang up his mantle forever."

At last she smiled. "Yes."

* * *

 **Music: "Je Veux Vivre" sung by Natalie Dessay, available on iTunes, spotify, etc. (Or, if you want to hear a Christine, by Celinde Schoenmaker, on YouTube. But personally, though I love Celinde, Natalie Dessay's voice is closer to how I imagine Christine sounding. Operatic voices tended to be lighter in the 1800's then they are today).**

The rehearsal period began. At times the hours and hours of practice seemed to drag by. The romantic scenes with Piangi, her Romeo, were particularly painful (the only silver lining she could think of to playing his lover was that even Erik could not bring himself to really feel jealous of the corpulent tenor).

And yet somehow at the same time the rehearsal month waned swiftly.

Soon opening night was before her. The final run-through was completed; the audience assembled, murmuring, in the seats and boxes. Reyer raised his baton, the curtain opened, and the opera began to whirl by in a torrent of music and romance, peril and tragedy.

Though she was playing a mere girl, a vulnerable, fragile, slip of a thing, that night as Christine stood there on Juliette's famous balcony, she began to feel for the first time like a woman and a true artist, fully awake and alive.

She could practically feel Erik beside her.

The music washed over her, engulfed her. It seemed to contain her whole being, to convey the very essence of her life.

She launched into 'Je Veux Vivre Dans Ce Rêve', feeling that her own self and Shakespeare's immortal heroine were merged in the words:

 _Ah, I want to live_ _within this dream_

 _that intoxicates me still_

 _Sweet flame, I keep you safe in my heart_

 _Like a precious treasure!_

 _This intoxication of youth only lasts, alas, for a day..._

 _Then comes the hour of weeping._

 _Sweet flame, remain in my heart_

 _For ages yet to come!_

She sang it again; the melody turned in on itself, she sang it higher and finished on a blazing high _la -_ an ornamentation she'd added, for it normally ended an octave lover - and then Juliette's most famous aria (and, what was more important to her, Erik's favorite) was complete and she could relax a little and let herself be carried away by the music.

The rest passed smoothly; the opera was a raging success. The audience screamed for encores and stamped so loud the whole theatre seemed to shake. There was no booing (which had been a very real threat; La Carlotta often paid hecklers to sit in the cheap seats and shout their disapproval of her rivals). The evening papers, even the most staid and condescending, deigned to voice their approval, and ticket sales were the highest the Opéra had seen since before the war. Piangi was endearingly delighted and even ventured to say he thought Christine had done reasonably well (out of earshot of his wife); La Carlotta was mercifully silent; the managers did not, for the time being, renew their harassment over the Vicomte's absence.

Most welcome of all to her, Erik voiced his unqualified approval, not just of her beauty and sweetness as he was normally wont to do, but also of her singing - a rare thing, and therefore all the more precious.

Everything was delightful. Everyone whose opinion mattered to her in the slightest - and even some individuals who did not - was happy.

It was too perfect, Christine mused fretfully one night as she and Erik rode quietly back to her appartement, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder.

Something had to happen.

And soon enough, something did.

 **End of Chapter 31. Thank you so much for reading!**


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

* * *

"I have something to give you," Erik said to Christine, the evening before the masquerade ball. They were standing together in a deserted service corridor of the opera house, heads together, like two spies conspiring.

The impression of intrigue was lightened as Christine smiled brightly. "How lovely of you."

He pursed his lips. "Well... you may not be very pleased with it, I fear. This is not a gift, exactly. It is something I wish I did not have to give you."

"What is it?" she said, looking confused.

He handed her a box, small enough for her to close her hands around it, but unexpectedly heavy. "It is a small pistol," he said uncomfortably. "You-"

"What?" She shook her head in bewilderment. "But I don't-"

He frowned. "-I trust I need not explain why it is important for you to have this. Indeed, I have neglected you by not giving it to you before."

"I rather think you do need to explain. Do you expect me to-"

"-You never know when you may need to defend yourself," he said, "Especially if we are to be in public together."

"-But we are always in public together-"

"-You may keep it in your handbag-"

"-In my handbag? Am I then to carry it with me everywhere I go? Fan, scent-bottle, handkerchief... revolver?"

"It is not a revolver, but yes," he said simply, looking surprised by her consternation. "Many ladies do."

She lifted her head. "I am not just any lady."

"Of course you are not. All the more reason to keep you safe. Look, it is small enough that no-one will be the wiser," Erik pressed. He opened the box to show her.

Indeed, it could have fit in the palm of her hand.

This did not console her, however.

"I would," she said, her mouth pressed in a stubborn line. "I would know."

Erik's frown deepened. He eyed her as though sneering at her moral reservations, and looked about to say something particularly scathing.

Determined not to be caught on the defensive, she demanded, "Where did you come by a gun? I notice you neglected to mention that."

"You are quite right. It is better you do not know."

"Oh, this is admirable!" she cried, flinging up her hands and turning away.

He said nothing.

His silence infuriated her. And yet, she found she did not have the energy to keep asking. Two months ago she would never have stood for that kind of response. She would have demanded an explanation. But now she let the matter rest. Her association with him was changing her, and not always for the better. She shoved the uncomfortable thought away.

"What if I... suppose somehow I did forget myself so completely as to use it," she said presently, turning round. "Wouldn't they be able to identify the bullets? Wouldn't they be able to trace it back to me? What then?"

He looked up, torn between admiration and surprise. "How did you ever come to-"

"-Meg."

"I ought to have known. Happily, no - I scrubbed the barrel with acid."

"A charming way to spend an afternoon."

He glared at her.

Christine looked down at the pistol again, and for a moment, though she hated herself for it, she tried to like the thing, or at least accept it. Tiny and delicate, it did not seem like a weapon. With its pearl handle and scrolled, gold-hued barrel, it was like a pretty toy.

But still, it seemed to emanate some malevolent aura.

In fact, its size and impracticality only made it seem more foul.

As though it were no weighty matter, as though firing off a bullet at someone were as simple as waving a fan or taking a spritz of perfume.

It was not an honest hunting weapon. This was too small for that. It had been made with only one purpose in mind. There was only one prey it could fell.

An ominous chord sounded in her mind as she studied it.

It is curious that such a vile thing can be made so beautiful," she said in a haunted voice, eyeing it with repulsion.

"I thought if it were beautiful it might distress you less."

"That was kind of you. But I still... I hate it." She sighed. "I am sorry."

"If you associate with me you may not be able to afford to have such morals," he said. "You carry the dagger; why are you refusing this?"

"You know I hate that too. Besides, this is different - a gun is a cowardly weapon. One may kill someone without... without even looking them in the eyes. It is depraved."

"I carry a revolver; am I a coward?" he cried hotly. "Am I depraved?

"For you it is different - you have good reasons," she said. "But if I were to, that would be-"

A thrill of fury shot through him like an injection of morphine. "-Oh, yes, you are too exalted to descend to such a level, naturellement-"

"-I said nothing of the sort!-"

"-Why must you be so superior, Christine?"

"Superior?" she cried, wounded to her core. "Not everyone has the luxury you have of-"

"-Luxury?" she cried. "What luxury do I have? I know the risks! I lived in danger long before I came to know you, as I have told you many times. I know the risks and I accept them!"

At last the anger went out of him. "Forgive me," he said quietly. "It is simply that... Were something to happen to you, I could never forgive myself."

"What reason would you have to blame yourself?" she said. "The fault lies with others."

He was silent.

"Unless..." Christine swallowed. "Perhaps it is yourself you do not trust?" she ventured at last, timidly.

Making this suggestion had terrified her, but she had no idea the magnitude of the tide it would unleash. To her horror, Erik, broke down sobbing, one hand braced against the wall, trying vainly to shield his face from her with his hand, so she could not see his tears.

She let out a little whimper of surprise. "Don't-"

"-What if I am what people say?" he moaned.

"What?" She wanted to throw her arms around him, kiss him, hold him, but to her surprise and dismay she found she was rooted to the spot.

"A monster, Christine! A man as hideous as this is capable of anything."

"You are raving. Cease this nonsense, for pity's sake-"

"-God only knows!" he cried. "The most vile things. I am not normal! I am depraved! What if I hurt you?"

"You would never think of hurting me!"

"How can you be sure?" He looked up at her with haunted eyes, at last letting his hand fall from his face for a moment.

"Do you suppose I would have engaged myself to you if you were that sort of man?"

"How would you know?"

"How would I know? Do you have no regard for my own judgment, then?"

He shook his head, unable to accept this. "Everyone who has been kind to me... I have repaid them wretchedly."

"What do you mean? You have not repaid me wretchedly." "Madame Giry-"

Christine felt a flare of anger at the name.

"-Madame Giry you have helped and watched over all these years. Think of all you have done for her. She has no right to begrudge you anything."

Another stubborn shake of his head. "If I had any concern for her I would never have come back to this place... and yet I repaid the only person - save you - who was ever kind to me by continuing to haunt her."

"She would not see it that w-" Christine stopped as she recollected that Madame Giry's benevolence toward Erik was not all she had imagined it to be.

Fortunately, Erik was too embroiled in his own despair to notice.

"In the same way, if I had any regard for you I should never have inflicted myself on you," he said. "I should have gone far away."

"What utter nonsense! How can you say such things-"

"-It is a fine way to repay you for all the happiness you have given me."

"On the contrary!" she protested. "Having you 'inflict yourself on me' - if that is what you call our engagement - is the best thing to ever happen to me." He looked at her with red, brimming eyes.

"You have always treated me as though I were a princesse," she said. "You have never behaved wrongly toward me."

"I suppose... but what if... what if..."

"Do you want to hurt me?" she asked rhetorically. "Has the thought even so much as crossed your mind, Erik?"

"Never."

"Well, then," she said resolutely. "As a matter of fact, this speaks well of you."

"What?"

"It is the people who never imagine that they are culpable who are the worst offenders," she said. "The ones who commit all manner of horror with a silent conscience, who flatter themselves into thinking that they are doing good. All of us are capable of evil - it is only the ones who recognize it, who examine themselves, who may escape it."

At last he sighed. "Very well."

 **CHAPTER 32 ENDS HERE.**

 **A note on this chapter: I've felt for a long time that Christine would believe that no human being is morally superior and our character has a lot to do with the life we've lived ('pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known?'). I'd been planning all along to have her mention that, since it would presumably be her reasoning for not questioning Erik too much about his past and accepting whatever he might have done in his life (within reason), and believing that he has the potential to be good in the future. (Having said that, one caveat - people who have committed domestic abuse almost always continue to do so. They can change, but it takes years if not decades, and they have to want to, and frankly most of them don't want to. I wish it was different, but I'd be lying to you if I tried to cover that up. I research this stuff for a living, so I feel an obligation to present the facts accurately.)**

 **Thank you so much to Syri Reed, Charlotte, and the mysterious anonymous guests for your lovely reviews. This is like theatre... people clap for you and you never know who they are... they just melt back into the night like a phantom... whoo... also I'm pretty excited that this is chapter 32 and we're at 132 reviews. Look at that!**


	33. Masquerade

**Music: ' _Masquerade'_ from _Phantom Fantasia_ by Anthony Inglis; 'Winter's Waltz' from 'Frozen' by Christophe Beck **

* * *

At seven o'clock, Christine stood at the top of the stairs, overlooking the grand foyer where the party was to be held. Erik had asked her to wait there. He wanted to see her descend the grand staircase in a splendid gown at a ball. She was more than happy to humor this simple wish of his.

The party was off to a promising beginning, despite its planning having been left in the hands of Andre and Firmin. An ensemble comprised of the Opéra's best musicians were warming up below, and the entry hall's tiered galleries were already filling with outlandish costumes and all manner of masks.

But the one mask Christine was looking for did not appear.

She surveyed the room with an uneasy gaze. Already she could feel herself beginning to fret.

Whenever Erik was the slightest bit late, she worried. She never knew whether he was fighting off some brutal attacker or delayed retying his cravat - there was no way to say.

Would it always be like this?

At last he appeared. For once he was not being cautious; he moved through the room with the assurance of an aristocrat. She recognized him at once - not because of the mask, for tonight everyone was wearing masks, and not by his attire, for he'd honored her wishes and worn an ordinary suit - but by the way he looked at her when he caught sight of her.

The expression on his face froze her where she stood. It was the way every woman dreamed of being looked at, at least once in her life.

He was splendidly turned out, looking a bit like Poe in a black silk cravat. A pewter raven, its eye picked out in a tiny ruby, secured the knot. He still had on a mask, of course, but he'd chosen a different one, in a dramatic black.

In one white-gloved hand, he held a rose with a black satin ribbon tied round its thornless stem. A rare smile completed his ensemble.

Her eyes felt locked to his.

At last she remembered he was waiting for her and began to descend the slick stairs, worrying she would trip, feeling a bit presumptuous and very clumsy - but he wouldn't notice all that. She could have tripped and fallen all the way down the stairs and he would probably still have thought her the most graceful woman in the room.

At last, she reached the bottom of the stairs and walked up to him.

* * *

Erik stood frozen.

He had not been prepared for the beautiful shock of seeing Christine descend the grand staircase in a red dress. He had not seen her in red before, and now that he witnessed such a marvel, he wondered that she ever wore any other color.

Fortunately, the general populace had taken the party as an excuse to wear the most garish ensembles they could contrive, so even with the bold pattern- his writing looping across her body in bold, commanding strokes - her gown did not stand out.

But Christine's beauty was another matter. It screamed so loud that he feared everyone in the room would turn and stare. It was so conspicuous that he was wanted, irrationally, to shush her, to demand that she somehow turn it down. Even in the veiled mask, it was obvious. The shape of her lovely brown eyes alone was still peculiarly bewitching. As he looked at her, he cursed himself for never devoting sufficient attention to them before - though he could have spent hours gazing into them.

He could write whole symphonies solely about them.

No, Christine could never blend in. Her beauty was even more conspicuous than his ugliness.

When she reached the bottom, he held the rose out to her, smiling as he looked her up and down.

To Christine's relief, there was no hint on his face of their fight from earlier. She accepted the rose and thanked him with a brief kiss. She would have liked for it to go on longer but he swiftly pulled away.

Before she could protest, he gently took the blossom back and, untying the ribbon, tucked it behind her ear.

"What do you think?" she asked. "I like having your writing all over me. I can keep something of yours with me, at least, since I cannot wear your ring for the time being."

"I do not like it all," he said solemnly.

"What?"

He made a gesture that encompassed her whole ensemble. "All of it. You are too beautiful. It is attracting attention. I think it very careless of you."

She smiled. "If you are not careful you are bound to attract the attention of some young ladies yourself. I mean to keep a close eye on you this evening."

He didn't seem to hear.

"Oh, but Christine, you have no necklace," he said after a moment. "I have been amiss."

"No - you have not gone amiss. It is my doing - I did not realize til the last minute, when it was too late. I had hoped no-one would pay attention," she laughed, "so if you would be so good as to ignore-"

"-Indeed, yours is such a lovely neck that I fear it would be difficult not to notice."

She smiled.

"But have no fear," he said. "I believe I have an answer."

"Oh?"

Bidding her turn round with a twirl of his finger, he took the ribbon and tied it carefully around her neck, arranging it so the ends trailed artfully down the back of her gown - _très chic_.

He was growing less afraid to touch her. Perhaps it was the gloves. He let one finger trail softly down her bare back like a meandering drop of water. A delicious shiver ran through her.

He kissed the back of her neck, where the delicate vertebrae stood out beneath her skin like a line of buttons under satin.

Turning, she put her arms about him, her lips seeking for his.

He stepped back. "Christine - they will see - Not out here in the open, I entreat you."

"That is not fair," she said. "You cannot do that to me and not let me kiss you. It is cruel." She smiled what she hoped was a seductive smile.

His ears turned red. "Ah- shall we dance?"

"If you insist." Smiling, she held out her hand, and he led her onto the floor.

The next two hours were a whirlwind. She had thought, after all her years in the corps de ballet, that she would be more than able to keep up with him. But Erik's feet practically flew, and he seemed never to tire. He sailed them through one dance after another, never the same one twice.

Soon they were both breathing hard. Her hair had started to come undone. But each time they started to drift toward the edge of the dance floor, one or the other of them would pull them back into the thick of it. At last, they looked at each other and simultaneously admitted defeat.

She leaned on his arm as they careened off the dance floor, until he shoved a fat banker in a jester costume out of the way to let her get to a chair.

"You are tired," he said, concerned, as she collapsed into the seat.

"No." She flung back her head, laughing. "No, I am not! I protest most strongly against that accusation!" She heaved a breath. "I suppose I ought to have known you would be a splendid dancer, and yet somehow I did not anticipate it." She took his hands.

He smiled. "I do know how to amuse myself, you know. I am not always dull."

"No, indeed! How many dances did you learn?" she laughed, exhausted and exhilarated at the same time.

"Not many. The tango, the paso doble, the waltz, the viennese waltz, the quadrille, the valse-musette, la toupie-"

"-Erik!" she cried, laughing.

"-the tango-musette, the paso-musette, the bourrée, the Schottische-"

"-Great Heavens, Erik! I have never heard of some of those."

"I am told those are all very common," he said. "It is quite ordinary, really."

"Oh, indeed!" she laughed. "It delights me to think of you practicing those with no music."

"One can imagine music very easily. Though Ayesha did think me a peculiar creature."

She laughed. "They who dance are thought mad by those who hear not the music."

"You have been reading Madame de Staël."

"Yes. I am a formidable creature." She smiled.

Suddenly the orchestra suddenly struck up the ' _Je Veux Vivre_ ' waltz, from her aria in _Romeo et Juliette_.

She looked up at him brightly. "Did you ask them to play that?"

"No." Erik was looking round in alarm. "They will be looking for you - they will be expecting you to go up and sing."

She laughed. "No."

"Hm?"

"No-one knows I came. Officially, I was never here," she said with a conniving smile.

His brow furrowed. "Shan't people wonder where you are?"

"Oh, no. La Carlotta was very helpful - she very efficiently saw to it that I did not receive an invitation-"

"-That viper!"

"Oh, but she played directly into my hands - you see, this way instead of being paraded around by the managers like a prize cow, I can spend the evening in blissful anonymity, drinking champagne and kissing you."

He smiled. "In that case, I am in her debt."

She kissed him.

When she pulled away, he put his arms around her. She rested her head against his chest, her eyes closed with happiness, and they listened to the orchestra in silence, taking in the sparkling beauty of the music.

"Thank God you got rid of the Vicomte, or I daresay he would have gotten you an invitation," Erik said at length.

Christine hid her annoyance at having him brought up. "You make it sound as though I pushed him off a glacier."

"Now that you mention the idea - it is an inspired plan."

She smiled in spite of herself. "You are incorrigible."

"Thank you."

"You know," she said, "For all your criticisms, they really aren't so bad, our musicians, are they?"

"Perhaps they play better when they are drunk. I always do."

Christine laughed.

Waving her arms in time with the music, she began to sing along softly, quite without realizing it, as she often did.

He quickly pressed two fingers gently against her lips.

Smiling, she kissed the tips of his fingers. "What is it?" she asked, her words somewhat muffled.

"You cannot put a mask on that voice, mon rêve."

She beamed.

There came a lull in the music.

Then, suddenly, a familiar voice rang out piercingly from the staircase, somehow slicing through the myriad conversations filling the room.

"Well, eet seems our dear leetle Chreestine Daeh eez not here. She asked me to sing eeen her stead eef she was not able to grace the party weeeth her presence." And all at once La Carlotta, crowned in a horrific gold feathered headdress and flanked by the managers, had launched into the aria.

Erik's face was frozen with horror. Even from beneath the mask his distress was obvious. "This is intolerable! How can you stand there and listen to this?"

"Why do you detest her so?" Christine asked.

"She has tried to sabotage you-"

"-Yes, but you loathed her even before then; why? Her voice is good - you cannot fail to recognize that."

"That is precisely why I detest her - it _was_ good, once, but she ruined her voice fifteen years before its time, because her technique is execrable-"

As if to punctuate this, the diva emitted a particularly shrill high _La_.

Erik winced. "-and she won't let anyone dare criticize her," he finished at last. "As for her acting, it is nonexistent. Shall I go on?"

La Carlotta launched into a coloratura run. Champagne glasses hummed.

"I cannot stand here and be subjected to this," Erik said, looking pale. "I am going to the refreshment table. May I bring you anything?"

"There are times I cannot help but admire her," Christine reflected as he turned away.

He froze. " _What_?"

"Not as an artist - but as a woman. I do not fight the way she does - but think of the rivalry we could have if I did descend to such tactics. It would be one for the ages!"

His face softened. "No, you would defeat her at once. She is not one-tenth the woman - or the artist - you are."

"You are going to make me get a big head."

"No, indeed."

She smiled.

"May I bring you anything?" he asked again.

"Oh, thank you, but I shall come with you." She took his arm.

"No, fighting your way through this horde would crush your gown." He gently extricated himself and kissed her on the cheek.

She relented with a smile. "Very well, then. Champagne, of course. Escape before your ears begin to bleed."

"Aha!" a voice suddenly cried. "I knew I would find you around here somewhere!"

They both jumped, but it was only Meg.

"Me voilà, les amis," she sang out, holding out her arms and strutting theatrically toward them.

She was looking impossibly stylish in a billowing white lace cravat and a red velvet jacket emblazoned with gold braid. Her legs, in sheer polka-dotted black hose, emerged beneath. A dainty black top-hat perched at a jaunty angle atop her curls completed the ensemble.

"Is that you, ducky?" she said to Christine, a little tipsy.

"You recognized me?" Christine said in alarm as Meg kissed her on the cheek.

"You told me what your gown was going to look like, ducky," Meg laughed. "Don't worry; I won't give you away."

"Oh. Yes, of course," Christine said, shaking her head. "Thank you." Her nervousness was clouding her mind.

Meg was too tipsy to notice. "Now that I see it - it is breathtaking!" she shouted in Christine's ear. "You are a vision. I do still wish, though, that you'd gone with your saloon-girl costume idea. That would have been awfully funny." She turned to Erik. "You!"

Erik stiffly inclined his head, uncertain how to react to her. "Mademoiselle," he said uncomfortably.

"You two are engaged!" Meg said.

Erik smiled shyly, while Christine put a finger to her lips.

Meg looked back to Erik. "I suppose you already know that if you don't treat her well, I'll rip out your entrails?"

"I do not doubt it," Erik said.

"Hm. Well, in that case... I'm sure I'm very happy for both of you."

Erik let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps he had not realized until that moment quite how much she frightened him.

Meg smiled and turned back to Christine. "What are you two standing about for? Has he danced with you?"

"Oh, yes," Christine laughed.

"Hmph. I'm sure he tried. I'll have to show him how it is really done." Meg said, tugging on her gloves. She held out her hand. "May I have this dance, my dear Mademoiselle?"

Christine laughed. "You may, dear Mademoiselle."

"Would dear Mademoiselle like anything else from the refreshment table?" Erik asked.

"Oh - I would adore some of that black caviar," Meg said.

"I did not ask you," Erik said.

Meg looked from him to Christine and laughed. "He is a cad," she said matter-of-factly.

Erik bowed. "Good-bye," he said, and turned to go.

"He has a nice rear end," Meg remarked pleasantly as he walked away.

Christine jumped. "You are correct in that assessment. But I observed it first - I have the prior claim."

With a smile, Meg whirled her onto the dance floor. They spun giddily through a few waltzes, laughing and tripping over one another's feet.

At last they tumbled out into one of the corridors in search of a breath of fresh air, and stood fanning themselves and spying on people's costumes.

At length the Baron appeared and claimed Meg, and Christine was left alone.

"Mademoiselle Daae," a voice from behind her said suddenly, and a man's hand took hold of hers - though not the one she had been hoping for.

She turned round and Raoul's elder brother, Comte Philippe de Chagny, stood before her, tall and handsome with a neatly clipped dark moustache and cold blue eyes. He wore a dark jacket with military gold braid that evidently he thought original enough to qualify as a costume.

He gave a stiff bow. "Mademoiselle."

There was no way out of it. Christine returned a small curtsy, struggling to hide her panic. How had he recognized her? "Monsieur le Comte. Good evening. I thought I was well-disguised."

"I was not sure at first that it was you, but when I saw Mademoiselle Giry, I thought it must be; my brother said you and she are inseparable."

What abominable luck for him to spot them together. Christine hid a wince. "I must ask you not to tell anyone. I am here incognito."

"I understand," he said, to her relief. "I often take the precaution of a disguise myself. Otherwise, the papers follow me everywhere in Paris. One has no privacy. It is intolerable. Perhaps you have experienced that yourself."

Christine felt a chill run through her. She had not thought of that. It had certainly never occurred to her when she started working to become a singer. Suppose her fame lasted - how would she and Erik ever find peace then? Would she, too, have to go about in a mask for the rest of her days? Would they ever be able to have a normal life?

"As my brother is not here," the Comte said to Christine, "He asked me to dance with you in his stead."

Christine looked up at him in surprise. _Why would he say that?_ "Did your brother not receive my message?"

The Comte looked at her in confusion. "What message?"

Christine tried to quell a rising sense of panic. Normally Raoul confided everything in Philippe. For as long as she could remember, the two brothers had been devoted to one another, Philippe looking after Raoul almost like a father. A rejection of a proposal of marriage would surely have warranted mentioning.

Was it possible her message to Raoul had not arrived?

* * *

 **End of Chapter 33. Thank you so, so much for reading! :)))) Chapter 34 coming soon!**

 **If you read the first part of this chapter before I updated - sorry for moving the "stolen champagne" bit around. The change doesn't affect the plot, I promise!**

 **Thank you so, so much to M.G, Jeannie Kaulitz, olivecspence, Marzz, Lady Myth, Charlotte, Angel, A Loving Phan, and youcancallmeO.G for your reviews! Your kind words mean the world to me! I am so grateful! Thank you also for your patience!**

 **To the guest who asked what type of Erik mine is - this one is mostly Lloyd Webber because the idea behind this phic is most directly based off the 2004 movie. But if there's something that isn't answered in the movie or musical, such as a question about Erik's personality or what he might do in a certain situation, I referred back to the Leroux novel.** **I also added that Erik went to Persia for a few years because a. he did go to Persia in the book, so he might have in the movie; it never really says one way or another, and b. it really bothers me that in the movie he had been manipulating her starting when she was a child - that is extremely creepy - so having that gap of a few years in there and that he doesn't fall in love with her until he's back from Persia and she's an adult makes it a teeny bit less problematic (still concerning, but it's the best I could do. Generally I just ignore that aspect of the movie tbh because it's incredibly disturbing and it isn't in the musical or book, so I don't consider it canon.)**

 **To M.G - don't worry; I'm not done with Raoul - not at all... *evil smile***

 **I am thrilled to be back on track and very excited about the next few chapters!**


	34. Non Amarlo Ditegli

The music began, a slow quadrille, the sort of thing grandmothers enjoyed.

Christine was relieved to only have to touch the Comte by the hand.

"I have some news you may be glad to hear," he said as he led her to the dance floor. "My brother is returning to France very shortly."

"I am glad to hear it," Christine said, though realizing at the same time that she was not sure this was true. She would be relieved not to have to worry for Raoul's safety, but life had been infinitely easier without him always following after her, meddling in her affairs, trying to delve into Erik's secrets. "I thought the expedition would not be over for some months yet."

The dance began, the couples moving in slow, intricate patterns. "He decided to leave early," the Comte said. "The climate did not agree with him."

 _I could have told him that!_ Christine thought.

"He kept getting frostbite," the Comte said. "Were it not for that, this opportunity could have been the making of him." He shook his head. "I don't know what I am going to do with him. Do you know, he almost shot a polar bear. He would have had it, too; it was only a few yards away, but he changed his mind when he saw it had a cub. The sentimental fool. He ought to have bagged them both. They would have looked magnificent in the trophy room at Chateau de Chagny."

"Are you sure he did not receive any message from me?" Christine interjected, unable to contain herself any longer.

She had never heard a reply from Raoul, despite having sent several telegrams. It had been weighing on her more and more as the weeks went by. The Comte's remark just now added fuel to her anxiety. Was it really possible Raoul had not received any of her communications?

"I have not heard of any," the Comte said.

"I sent a telegram and a letter over a month ago," Christine pressed, beginning to grow desperate. What would Erik think if Raoul came back here still never having heard a refusal from her? "Do you think he would have mentioned it to you?"

"I do not know," the Comte said. "A year ago, I would have said yes. However, lately he almost never confides in me."

Christine felt a small measure of relief. "Ah- have you fallen out?"

"Certainly not. But he has grown very... independent. He no longer listens to the family. It has to do with our not seeing eye-to-eye as regards a certain young lady."

Christine chose to ignore this hint. "Oh."

"With regard to the telegram - I suppose it would depend on what it said," the Comte prodded.

"I am afraid I cannot tell you," Christine said; it was obvious this line of inquiry she had pursued was leading nowhere, anyway. "It would be betraying Raoul's confidence."

"Hm. Very well," the Comte said, looking irritated. "But if it is anything to do with his offer of marriage-"

"-You know of that?" Christine said.

"-Yes. Allow me to make a suggestion. It is unwise to marry outside of one's station."

Christine had been about to assure him that nothing was more unlikely than her marrying Raoul, but she felt a flare of anger as the Comte's words sank in. "Outside of one's station?" she cried.

"You cannot take issue with my pointing out what is an objective fact."

 _If that is true,_ Christine wanted to say, then _you cannot object to my pointing out that your moustache looks like someone killed a fly on your upper lip._ "Monsieur de Chagny-"

The Comte held up a hand. "-Mademoiselle, before you become too outraged - I understand that this will be a sacrifice for you, given that it is not likely you will ever again have an opportunity to equal this."

"Oh, indeed?" Christine snipped.

"Given your unfortunate circumstances..."

"Do you call my circumstances unfortunate? Monsieur de Chagny, I have been applauded by the Emperor. Princes have sent me jewels." _And what is more important than any of that, I am engaged to the most brilliant, the bravest, the noblest, the most extraordinary man in the world. You are not fit to lick his shoe._

"All that is nothing," the Comte said. "Station cannot be won so easily. The jewels they send to such celebrities are of little value. And people's regard for you will fade."

"Do you think so?" Christine sneered.

"You are not likely to ever get a better offer of marriage, of course."

"As a matter of fact, I received much better-"

"-Mademoiselle, there is no need to dissemble. I am familiar with the sort of perils girls in your circumstances often face. In view of all that, the de Chagnys are prepared to compensate you for any... difficulties you may encounter if you agree to my suggestion."

Christine stared at him. This must be a dream. It was the sort of thing that only happened in lurid novels. Surely no-one in real life would be ill-bred enough to do what the Comte seemed to be doing. At last she remembered she had a voice, and opened her mouth to reply. "I-"

But before she could speak further, she suddenly found herself whirled away from the Comte. She was in Erik's arms; through some machination he had contrived to pull her away for a moment without disrupting the pattern of the dance.

"Take care!" she cried in alarm. "That is the Comte de Chagny- he recognizes me - if he sees you he may suspect that we are-"

"-Yes," Erik said absently. "Did I hear him offer you money to stay away from his dear little brother?"

"Yes, you did."

"Doesn't he know of your refusal?"

Christine glanced at him, startled. But she could see no trace of suspicion in his eyes.

"It appears not," she said at last. She swallowed guiltily.

"This evening gets better and better!" Erik said, a grin spreading over his face.

Christine stared at him in bewilderment, confused enough that she forgot her anxiety for the moment. "My darling, how can you say that?"

"You do not want to take it?" he said with evident surprise.

"You don't think I should, surely?"

"He is offering you a fortune not to do something that you weren't going to do anyway." Erik's eyes gleamed cunningly. "I call that a windfall."

"Do you mean to say you really would not mind?" she asked, surprised in turn.

"Certainly not."

"Oh," Christine said quietly.

He thought. "Is it out of concern for me that you want to refuse?"

"Largely, yes."

"Well, set your mind at ease on that score. I have not the slightest objection."

"Very well," she said hesitantly. "I shall certainly bear it in mind. But it is not merely that."

"What, then?"

"It seems wrong - deceitful," she said. "And it will break poor Raoul's heart, if it is not broken already."

"I do not care for anyone's heart save yours."

"I believe you have it in you to care for more, my darling."

"No, you are wrong." He smiled. "There is just enough affection in my shriveled soul for one person - no more."

"What nonsense. You have a soul greater than anyone's I have ever met. A man who can write such music as yours can never be without feeling." She paused. "You ought to pity Raoul, you know."

"Pity _him_?" Erik cried in disgust.

"Yes, if only for this one reason - he has not been happy in love, while you have."

"He will get over it," Erik said. "He may think he loves you. But he cannot love you as I do."

"I agree. He has not your capacity to love, your depth of feeling. But he thinks he loves me, which may in fact be just as painful. Even a silly little pampered rich boy such as him has some feelings, you know."

"Hm. I am not sure I agree. But if you are so concerned, allow me to offer some consolation. The Comte would never tell his little brother that he bribed a woman not to marry him. Why would he?"

"You are right."

"Of course I am," he said. "I am always right."

At last, Christine smiled.

"In fact," Erik said, "I think the coward will not say anything to him about the matter at all."

"I think you may be right. Oh, but... suppose Raoul suspects..."

"Well, the Vicomte already knows of your refusal - so he shall never think this event, which occurred afterwards, was the cause of it. He cannot suspect what is impossible."

"Yes... of course..." But still Christine hesitated. _Does Raoul know?_ Oh, God, this was intolerable!

Just then, a hand tapped Erik on the shoulder.

Christine whirled around, stunned by the presumption. Who would dare...?

"Excuse me," the Comte said.

Erik rounded on him slowly and stared at him in silence for a moment, his expression inscrutable. For a moment, Christine was possessed by a wild fear that he would attack the Comte out there in front of everyone.

Finally, however, he released Christine's hand, though not before making a show of pressing a kiss to it. At last, with a mocking bow, he strode off.

Christine had to hide a laugh.

"Insolence," the Comte said, squinting at Erik's retreating figure. "Who is that fellow?"

"I do not know."

"Not some acquaintance of yours?"

Christine did her best to look annoyed. "Certainly not."

"Did he give his name?"

"No."

"I'm sure he does not have an invitation," the Comte said. "Perhaps I should speak with the doormen."

* * *

 **Chapter 34 continues here. Thank you so much for reading!**

* * *

"Oh, no, not when everyone is enjoying themselves," Christine said. "It would be a pity to spoil the occasion with unpleasantness."

"Yes, I suppose that is so. Perhaps the managers, however. I really ought to speak with Andre and Firmin about this."

 _The managers_ , Christine thought. All at once she realized: here, at last, was the solution for getting free from Raoul without angering the managers.

They would not want anyone at the Opéra to get on the bad side of the Comte de Chagny. If he wanted her away from Raoul, they would never dare bring up the subject again.

Until that moment, she had never quite accepted the idea of taking the Comte's bribe. Now, however, her mind was changed.

"Monsieur le Comte," she said, as they began the next dance, "You were going to ask me something earlier, I believe?"

The Comte looked round at her. "Yes. Do you agree to my request?"

"Well, that depends," she began carefully. How did one go about this sort of thing? "You were in the midst of a fascinating suggestion. I should be very interested in hearing what you were going to say."

The Comte stared at her in confusion for a moment. Then, as understanding sank in, his finely molded brow contracted with annoyance. "Very well," he sighed. He leaned toward Christine and pronounced a sum which made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "There, are you satisfied?" he said, leaning back. "Can I speak any more plainly than that?"

"That will be sufficient," Christine said hastily.

 _Try for more,_ a voice in her head seemed to interject. Erik's voice.

"Although... Were you to, ah, expand your offer," she pressed, shocked by her own boldness, "it would be in my power to go home."

"Home?" the Comte said.

"To Sweden. I have long wished to return to my homeland. That is what you want, is it not - for me to be as far from here as possible?"

The Comte blinked in surprise. "Mademoiselle-"

"-And furthermore, I must say I am disgusted that you would trade away your brother's-"

"-My dear Mademoiselle, you misunderstand me!"

"Pardon?" Christine said.

"A marriage is out of the question, certainly, but I certainly do not wish for Raoul to be parted from you."

Christine froze. "What?"

"There are other arrangements. There is no reason you and he could live a very happy life together. He would see that you were always well looked-after. De Chagnys always honor their obligations. Any children you had would receive the finest education."

Christine's mind was suddenly a thousand miles away, filled with a vision of Erik holding a tiny curly-headed little boy, gently kissing his cheek as he fell asleep. She thought her heart would twist up inside her. To think men like this had offspring they would not even claim as their own, while she and Erik could never have a child.

"They would not have the advantage of the de Chagny name, but they would still be welcome in the best society," the Comte went on. "And this way you would be able to continue your singing career. You certainly would not be able to do that as the Vicomtesse de Chagny."

 _Erik would never think of making me give up my singing career simply because I married him!_ Christine wanted to shout.

Her plan was utterly spoilt. She was so distracted with rage, she almost missed a step in the dance.

"Has Raoul never spoken to you of the idea?" the Comte said, pulling her back to the present.

"No," Christine half-lied - truth to be told, she was not sure. He had always been tremendously vague.

"I am sure he would not be opposed to the idea, especially if you tell him you do not want to marry him."

"I am not so sure of that. He is an honorable man."

"You are not insulted, I hope?" the Comte said, peering at her. "Here in France, particularly in the capitol, many respectable women become the maitresses* of prominent men. There is no shame in it. They are still received in society-"

In fact, Christine knew this, and she was not insulted. If it were not safe to marry Erik, she would gladly have lived with him without being his wife (though he would not have called her his _maitresse_ \- he would never think of her in such terms). Indeed, if their wedding were delayed again she was resolved to do just that.

But being puritanical was a convenient excuse. Far, far better than that the Comte find out about Erik. "But I will not 'enter into such an arrangement', and I do not think it respectable in the least!" she said. "For him to have a wife and children, and a mistress on the side? It is intolerable."

Surely the Comte could not blame her for refusing.

But to her surprise, he persisted. "It is the only way for Raoul to be happy and fulfill his duty to our family," he said.

"It is _not_ the only way for him to be happy. There is never only one way for a person to be happy. You should not put his happiness so squarely in my hands."

" _I_ certainly would not have if I had the choice, but it cannot be helped. He is devoted to you."

At last Christine lost her temper. "Then I am sorry, but he will have to get over it!"

"Then is all you wanted from him a title? And you were certainly happy enough to take his money when he offered to sponsor your singing lessons. You have used him abominably!"

Christine finally lost her temper. "I beg your pardon? I never wanted anything from him. I have repaid him in full for his generosity. I never sought to become a Vicomtesse. I never asked for his attentions. I have certainly given him little enough encouragement. It is you who have used him cruelly. You had best hope I do not tell him of this."

The Comte's face went white with rage. "How dare you?"

"Good night, Monsieur de Chagny!" Shoving her way through the crowd, Christine abandoned him in the middle of the floor. She did not care what he thought. Hang him - and hang Raoul too if he was stupid enough to listen to him.

 _It is just as well I avoided marrying him - it appears there is insanity in the family!_

Let the Comte's bribe be damned - she could not endure any more of this harassment. And as for the managers - well, she would have to find some other way to get them to leave her alone.

She was so angry she did not see where she was walking to or who she passed; she did not become aware of her surroundings until she emerged into the columned corridor that ringed the grand foyer and saw Meg standing before her.

"There you are!" she cried. "I've been hunting for you for ages! What have you and the Comte been talking of for so long?"

"This is not to be borne!" Christine cried without preamble. "Do you know what he said to me? I tell you, no matter how many years I live in this city, there are some things I will never understand about the Parisians!"

"That will have to wait," Meg said, taking her by the arm and compelling her across the room.

"Where is Erik?"

"That's what I need to tell you," Meg said. "There's something you ought to see."

 **End of Chapter 34. Thank you so much for reading! Thank you so much to pinkdynamite, WraithSnakeZenith, Marzz, and LadyMyth for your thoughtful feedback and kind words, and of course thank you as ever to the marvelous Crystal for your continued support!**

* * *

 _ ***"Maîtresse" = technically, the French version of the word 'mistress'. I kept it untranslated because the connotation in France at the time was different and less perjorative, more like what we would think of as a girlfriend today than a "mistress". We think of the Victorians as very prudish, but in France at the time this was very widely accepted, even considered normal, especially in Paris and among the working class.**_


	35. Chapter 35

Christine followed Meg's outstretched finger with her eyes and saw Erik.

He had been cornered next to the stairs by a stunning redheaded woman in a seductive black velvet gown. She was flirting with him efficiently, one hand stroking his shoulder and the other rested against his shirtfront. He looked surprised, alarmed, suspicious, disbelieving, uncertain, and, to some extent, thrilled (she could hardly blame him for that; she would have been thrilled, as well, had such a magnificent creature taken notice of her)- but most of all terrified.

He was trying to stammer out some excuse, but the girl was clearly determined.

"I know her," Meg said with a sneer. "That's Isabelle Moreau. She dyes her hair, you know. She's really a mousy little-"

"-How did this come about?" Christine said.

"He was looking for you and she pounced on him." Meg took a gulp of champagne. "It's quite entertaining, really. Don't worry - it seems quite harmless, or I would have shoved her down the stairs long ago."

"Thank you," Christine said, managing a smile.

However, inwardly she felt she could not be so certain this would end harmlessly. She watched Erik anxiously. What did the creature want from him - did she think he was rich? Or had she been admiring him, as Meg had, and no doubt supposed that he was like any other partygoer and a handsome face lay beneath his mask?

"How long has she been there?" she asked Meg.

"Oh, I don't know. Are you going to do anything about it, or shall you let it go on?" Meg asked with interest, as though they were at the theater watching a farce by Eugène Labiche. Any moment now she was going to pull out a bag of peanuts like they were in a balcony seat at the Folies-Bergère.

Christine pondered Meg's question. _Perhaps this will finally convince him that I am not the only one of the gentler sex who finds him attractive,_ she thought. Perhaps _then he won't be so unsure of me._ "I don't see the harm."

"Hmm. Very well." Meg glanced at her uncertainly.

For a few moments, they stood in silence.

"How can she fall all over him like that?" Christine said suddenly, startling herself.

"It is New Years' Eve in Paris and she has had one too many." Meg smiled, eyeing her knowingly. "He looks terrified, poor fellow. Hasn't he ever been touched by a woman before? You ought to go rescue him."

"I cannot," Christine said, her eyes glued to Erik.

"What?"

"Much as I should like to, people cannot know he and I are a couple - think of the scandal for me. You go. Pry them apart somehow."

"I think you're jealous," Meg said.

Christine looked over at her in astonishment. "How perfectly absurd. A jealous woman would have gone over there and taken his arm."

"A woman who was a little jealous might. A woman who was truly _jealous_ would continue to watch from a distance, as you are doing."

Christine felt her face go red. "Am I so mean as that?"

Before Meg could reply, however, something happened.

Christine saw Erik blanch with fear at something the woman said. Undeterred, however, she reached her hand, gloved in black velvet, toward his face.

He sprang back, but the crowd was close around him, and a moment later she'd torn off his mask.

Erik let out a terrified, helpless cry and clamped his hands over his face as though he had been burnt.

The woman let out a piercing shriek as she took in the sight of Erik's twisted features. "It's the Ghost!"

Erik shoved the guests in front of him violently out of the way and sprinted toward the door.

Their were gasps and cries of outrage. Heads began to turn.

"It's the Ghost!" the miserable creature kept shrieking. "It's him! It's true!"

 _Quiet, girl,_ Christine thought furiously, turning and running toward Erik.

Their paths crossed as he neared the doors. She caught at his arm as he passed her, trying to reassure him. But when he saw her he shrank away in horror. "No," he cried, ducking his head, trying to hide.

Christine felt an intense stab of pity and sorrow, mingled together with adoration.

She wanted to look away, for his sake, but she could not. She felt frozen, as though she were trapped in amber.

It was the first time since his illness earlier that year that she had seen him without the mask. The first time looking into the face of the man she loved.

Her first thought, difficult to put into words, was something like _It's you. That's who has been there all this time. I remember you._

Her second, to wonder what there could possibly be in that face to give such offense that everyone would despise him, mock him, abuse and abandon him as they had. He was the same man she had loved all along.

A moment later, the spell was broken as he broke through what remained of the crowd; in a moment, he was outside. Guests began to pour out the door after him, Christine in their midst.

Shivering at the sudden chill of the last few hours of December, she glanced frantically around for him.

To her horror, he'd been seized by one of the doormen. For a tense moment, they grappled, and then Erik shoved him to the ground with a brute force that startled Christine.

She ran toward him, but as she closed in, he shrank away from her. "What are you looking at, _hein_ , you little bitch?" he snarled.

There were gasps of anger from behind her. Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her back from him.

Christine winced, startled. She knew it was an act, that he had had to do it, but it still startled her.

And she would hardly have blamed him if he had meant it. She had endangered him, endangered them both, by being so careless at a time like this.

And yet how could she have done otherwise? How could she not run to him?

That was the cruelty of it all.

Taking advantage of her surprise, Erik darted past her and ran down the steps outside the Opéra, taking them three at a time. But at the bottom, instead of running off down the street he turned back to the building, as though some enchantment bound him to it.

Grabbing on to the fluted stonework, he leapt up the side.

Christine shook off whoever had held her back and darted forward. She watched with the rest of the crowd as he began to scale the walls like a panther on a cliff.

Soon he was high off the ground, twenty feet, thirty feet.

Christine was suddenly seized by despair. How could escape this?

The surface was never meant to be climbed. About halfway up he slipped, and suddenly he was hanging, trembling, by just a few fingers.

His feet scrambled to find footing, but could not gain purchase. At last he ceased struggling.

No way to go further up. The only way was back down.

But he did not climb down. He leapt.

His body seemed to hang suspended in the air for a moment, and then it plummeted with sickening speed.

A scream spilled out of Christine's mouth.

And then suddenly his hands shot out and grabbed on to a groove in the stonework. His fall stopped abruptly.

Christine let out a gasp of mingled relief and horror. It had been the single most horrible moment of her life. Worse, even, than when her father was dying - at least she had known that was coming, and it had not been sudden and violent, as she had always feared in her heart of hearts that Erik's death would be.

And yet, he continued to climb, til he was only a blurred shape in the darkness, half-obscured by the haze of the gaslamps below.

Once, when Christine found she could not bear to look, she turned her head away - but the sight of the faces around her sickened her just as much - some eager, a few concerned, but all of them disgusted and frightened.

It was horrible to be only a part of the gawking crowd, pretending Erik met as little to her as to anyone else. She longed to rush forward, but she had to continue to act as though she were afraid of him. No role could prepare her for a grand, all-encompassing, deception like this.

She looked back up, tears in her eyes.

"He has escaped worse than this," a voice suddenly said from beside her, just as she thought she could bear no more.

Startled, she glanced over and saw Madame Giry standing beside her.

It was a comfort to know someone else in the crowd was concerned for him too.

Putting aside their disagreements for the time being, she put her arm around her, and Christine accepted, leaning her weight into her, drawing strength from her.

For now, they were united in their wish for Erik's safety.

At last, after what seemed like hours, Erik cleared the roof.

Immediately, Christine turned and ran inside. There was nowhere to go from the roof except down, back into the opera house. He may have escaped a fall, but he was far from being out of danger.

He ought to have run away. She could not imagine how he could make it all the way back down to the cellars and to safety before someone caught him. At best he would have only a few moments' head start. Dozens of people had seen him climb up there. They all knew he must be here somewhere. He was all but trapped.

Praying that the shock of the guests would paralyze them for a few moments and buy him some time, she tore through the lobby and up one of the patrons' staircase.

The snatches of gossip she heard as she sprinted through the building nauseated her.

"His skin was yellow! Like parchment. Like a leper's."

"No, his _eyes_ were yellow! Like an animal. His flesh was rotting."

"Yes, and his eyes were just horrible black holes in his head, and he had no nose at all!"

Christine dug her fingernails into her palms.

So this was what she was up against; this was the kind of thing Erik had been enduring all his life, and that she was inheriting. Well, damn them - damn them all. She was ready.

As she neared the top floor of the Opéra, high above the auditorium and far away from the lavish entry hall, where the cheapest seats were to be found, a new set of voices caught her attention.

"He must have gone up."

"Yes, there's no other way."

She stopped to catch her breath and listen.

"He'll be here somewhere," the voice continued. And then, "There!"

Christine looked up and saw Erik. He was crouched on a carved stone platform on a bannister at the very top of the staircase, tense and expectant, still looking like a fleeing cat, more animal than human. Ringed around him, though they were standing a few feet back in caution, were several guests.

Christine began to run up the last few stairs toward him.

In the midst of the tension, Firmin suddenly emerged from the auditorium, trailed by one of the peroxide-haired ballet girls he and Andrew had brought in tow. "What's all this?" he said irritably.

Erik sensed his moment. To Christine's horror, he lunged forward and suddenly leapt from the bannister.

A cry of terror leapt from Christine's mouth, a clear, bright, frightened sound that seemed to have a life of its own.

She soon saw that had not jumped without calculation, however. He fell at an angle, and hit the bannister one floor down on the other side. It was a risky maneuver but it succeeded, breaking the force of his fall. With dazzling agility, he shoved his weight off it and launched himself in the other direction, catching himself on the next bannister down. He only paused for a moment before jumping again.

After a moment, Christine understood what he was doing. Soon he was almost back to the first floor, outdistancing them all beyond any hope of their catching up. This was the answer for how he would escape - this mad gamble.

It all happened in an instant.

Everyone upstairs stood frozen except for the blonde, who whipped a derringer out of her bodice and fired it at him with dazzling speed, startling everyone in the room.

Christine gasped.

But it missed widely, and before the girl could get off another shot, Firmin seized her arm. "You'll ruin the stonework, you little fool!" he roared. "Do you really suppose the insurers would pay for that?"

Erik took advantage of the commotion to run down the last flight of stairs and disappear. Christine stood, shaking with relief, wondering whether to follow.

"He is right," said a guest in a cavalier costume, coming forward. "He has not threatened anyone. The only thing he has done that is illegal is climb the building. We cannot shoot him for that."

Christine turned toward this new voice with a growing sense of gratitude. _Finally_ , _a person of intelligence!_

"Nothing illegal?" Firmin sputtered, his face turning beet-red. "What about trespassing?"

"Do you know he doesn't have an invitation?" the cavalier pointed out.

" _Ha!_ Do you suppose I would have let like a thing like that come to my party?"

Christine stifled a cry of rage.

"This is the most exclusive event of the season! There are aristocrats and royalty here!" Firmin went on. "Besides, we all know it was the Phantom! Or do you suppose there are two fools with a face like that running around Chaussée d'Antin? He dropped that backdrop on our soprano - I told you fools about that months ago."

"And _you_ told us that was an accident and you did not want us to look into it any further," the man replied mildly.

With a chill, Christine realized this must be an officer in disguise.

"We shall have to arrest him and question him properly," he went on. "Don't worry - he will not leave this building. My men are stationed at every exit."

Christine's heart began to pound. Erik did not know about this. She must get away; she must find him before anyone else did and warn him. She began looking about frantically for some way to depart unseen - the managers hadn't seemed to notice she was here, but she didn't want to take any chances. At last, she remembered there was another way to leave.

There was a service staircase not far from here, its door carefully disguised to look like a part of the elegantly decorated walls. There was no chance whatsoever that men like Andre and Firmin knew about any of them- they seemed to be permanently under the impression that the servants who cleaned the opera house came and went by magic.

Perhaps they might be interested in knowing about this one - but that did not mean she had to tell them, she thought with a smile.

Happily, the officer had not seen her - he was still engrossed in arguing with the managers - and the others were all still staring dumbly down the shaft of the staircase.

When Christine had satisfied herself that none of them were paying her any mind, she opened the door, slipped through, and swiftly shoved it closed behind her.

Inside, it was dim, lit only by a few flickering gaslamps.

Immediately she began to sprint down the barren concrete steps. These did not loop around elegantly, taking their time in descent, like the patrons' staircases. Here, each flight turned sharply onto the next, brisk and businesslike, so the journey was swift.

Hand on the bannister, she watched her feet closely so as not to miss a step. They turned to a blur as she gathered speed. Her thoughts whirled around and around like the staircase.

Meg was right. If she had not been selfish and jealous and petty this would never have happened.

Lost in her regrets, she ceased to see the world around her and soon all but forgot where she was.

Soon she found herself in the underground levels beneath the stage, where lay all the ugly parts of the opera house, all its secrets.

She reached the end of the staircase abruptly, emerging into startling silence and utter darkness. There was no sign of any of the guests, which she was glad about, but there was no sign of Erik either. Even if she was correct and he had come this way, how on earth was she to find him in a labyrinth like this? She thought about calling his name, but it seemed unwise.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Fumbling in the blackness, she took a book of matches out of the chic little bejeweled metal handbag hanging from her arm - a gift from Erik - broke one off, and clumsily struck it, hoping she wouldn't singe her fingers.

To her relief, a study little flame leapt up at once, filling the passage around her with a faltering orange light. The effect was unnerving, as though she were traversing one of the outer circles of hell. Still, there was no time to hesitate. The light wouldn't last long. She quickly started forward.

No sooner had she begun to move, however, than the flame suddenly spluttered out and a hand seized her arm and pulled her around a corner.

* * *

 **Chapter 35 to be continued below. Thank you so much for reading! Thank you to pinkdynamite, WraithSnakeZenith, Marzz, LadyMyth, Jeannie Kaulitz, Witzendwander723, Charlotte, and Comical Freaka for your thoughtful reviews! They mean the world to me. Thank you Crystal for your continued support and encouragement!**

* * *

Christine's nerves were strained to breaking. With a scream of mingled fear of anger, she swung back her free arm and slammed her handbag into her assailant's face.

"Oh! God in Heaven!" he cried in obvious pain, but he did not break his grip.

She pulled back her arm to try again.

"No, Christine!" came the voice, and all of a sudden she recognized it as Erik's. "Wait!"

"Oh!" she cried in horror. "Mon cœur! I am wretchedly sorry!"

"You should be very proud," he whimpered, in a voice half of pain and half of admiration. "Well done."

"Forgive me! I am so terribly sorry. What an evening this has been for you!" She tried to throw her arms around him, but he pulled away. She settled for taking one of his hands. "Are you well? Are you safe? I am so very glad to see you!"

"There is no need to apologize," he said. "It is my fault. I bought that bag for you on purpose."

"What?"

"You wouldn't take the pistol so I had to give you something to defend yourself with."

"Erik!"

"Forgive me; I did not mean to frighten you. I merely wanted to get you out of the way before someone saw you. I was not thinking." He sounded utterly miserable, and - what was entirely unprecedented with him - as though he had no idea what to do next.

"Are you safe?" she asked. "Is anyone following you?"

"I... do not know. I do not think so."

She put a hand toward his face. "Can we not have light? Let me look."

"No."

"Have I hurt you badly?"

"No... no... it will pass. Besides, I daresay I deserve it." He pulled away.

"What?" she said. "Whatever for? Because you said 'you bitch'? I know you did not mean it."

He winced at the recollection. "Well... yes, that as well, of course... But it is not only that... Christine... Christine... I have every obligation to protect you from all that is foul and evil in the world, and the very worst thing of all, I did not- I let you be tainted..."

"What are you talking of?"

"You should not have had to look upon such a..."

"What?"

"You saw," he moaned wretchedly, his voice breaking. "I am ashamed. I have failed you. After all you have done for me, to let such a thing happen - this is how I repay you-"

Suddenly Christine understood. "-Why... but... Why should I be sorry to look upon the face of the man I love?"

"You don't seem to understand! It is not a face. I have no face. It is an abomination!"

"There isn't time for this," she said frantically; he was beginning to shout and it made her terrified they would be caught. "Listen - I must tell you - There is a gendarme here."

"There are several," he said, tired and miserable and indifferent.

"But you see, their captain says he has men stationed at every exit."

Slowly he began to come round. "Oh."

"I know previously they have not given you much trouble, but I daresay they will look into it now, and their captain - he seems cleverer than the rest." She startled herself by suddenly having to choke back a sob. "This is all my fault."

Immediately his voice grew softer. Her distress made him forget his for a moment. "How in Heaven's name do you suppose that?"

"I saw that woman - that miserable little fool - flirting with you."

"Oh? Yes, she was a peculiar creature. I do not know what came over her. One can only suppose she was under the influence of a hallucinogen."

 _You have misapprehended the whole situation_ , Christine thought, feeling guiltier than ever. "I should have come over and rescued you. But I did not, because I was jealous."

"Jealous?" he echoed, as though this were entirely unexpected.

She mistook his tone. "Yes," she said, her stomach churning with shame. "It was paltry and mean and little of me - forgive me-"

He stood frozen.

Her eyes had begun to adjust to the dark, but still she could not make out his expression. "Erik?" she said in an agony of apprehension. "Erik, what is it?"

"-Christine Daae was jealous for me?" he said after a moment. "Hmh! Well!" There was no mistaking his tone now. He was not angry; he was thrilled.

She could see already that they were not going to have a fight.

"Yes," she said, relieved but still bewildered. "Of course I was - I am your fiancée!"

Erik suddenly looked up toward the ceiling.

A moment later Christine noticed that the rafters had begun to creak; she could hear footsteps on the floor above them.

"Listen, you must let me help you," she said. "Tell me how I can be of assistance."

He thought for a moment. "If you go back in that direction, you may delay them for awhile," he said, putting a hand on her arm. "Tell them I went in a different direction, or something of the kind. Some fabrication - nothing that will get you in any trouble, however."

"Yes. Very well." She paused. "When shall I see you?"

The question seemed to spin ominously in the air in front of them, the answer hanging over them like a suspended blade.

"I shall send word when I am safe. I hope we shall see one another again before this, but if not: two weeks before March the thirtieth," he promised. "We shall meet at the church to have the banns posted."

"Yes." Christine swallowed. Two months was an agony - a chasm that gaped before her like a vast wound. But their wedding was the best possible thing she could have had to look forward to. She would do anything, endure anything, to see that he was alive for that day.

She had time for a single frantic kiss before he whirled around and darted away.

A moment later, like a shadow, he had disappeared without a trace and she might just as easily have imagined the whole conversation.

Ignoring the sickening wave of sorrow that rose up inside her, she turned back toward the stairs.

As she neared the end of the corridor, she tripped over something lying in the floor.

Gingerly, she picked it up.

Erik's cloak. He must have left it behind in his haste - or perhaps on purpose. She ought to move it elsewhere, to confuse his pursuers.

Or...

An idea began to take shape in her brain.

Erik would have hated it. It certainly didn't fall within the bounds of "nothing that will get you into trouble".

All the more reason for him never to hear about it, then, she thought with a grim smile.

She made for the stairs with renewed eagerness.

Before she reached them, however, she saw someone coming down. By the light he was holding, she could see him though he could not see her.

The police captain.

She choked with fright. Erik was only a few moments ahead.

How fortunate that she was between them.

Heart pounding, she ducked back into the crevice she and Erik had been hiding in a moment ago. Letting his cloak settle about her shoulders, she waited for the officer to draw closer.

She was tall - so tall Madame Giry had had a time fitting her in to the corps de ballet. In her high-heeled boots, she was only a few inches shorter than Erik. And with the voluminous folds of his cloak wrapped around her, even the cleverest of men would not be able to see how much slimmer her silhouette was.

At last he came close enough to see her. She darted out of her hiding-place and began to sprint down the corridor.

"Ah!" cried he, and began to give chase. "Stop!"

Christine ran. She ran blindly, taking turns at random, gripping the walls as she flung herself around corners. She thought only of leading him as far away from Erik's lair - and from Erik - as possible.

The officer was not a young man, and she felt sure she could outrun him.

However, the footsteps behind her never faltered. After moment it struck her that there was another person there as well, younger and swifter. Someone must have been just behind him on the stairs.

A moment later the Comte de Chagny's voice came hurling at her like a lance. "This is not the first time you have threatened Mademoiselle Daae!" he roared.

 _Threatened me?_ Christine thought furiously. _When has he ever done such a thing?_

The policeman finally stopped, wheezing to the Comte to go on ahead. (The police must be in the de Chagnys' pockets, Christine thought. How marvelous.)

He wouldn't be so easy to get rid of. He seemed to have the stamina of a racehorse. He was forty-two, but no doubt he boxed and played polo and hunted grouse on the moors like other men of his class.

It wasn't easy keeping ahead of him.

But she managed it. She was agile from her years in the ballet.

The chase went on for what seemed like hours, through endless twisting corridors, til even Christine, who had virtually grown up here, did not know where they were.

She ran until her throat began to burn and each breath seemed to be torn from her. At last, fearing for her voice, she admitted to herself it was time to end this. She slowed her pace.

The Comte pounced at once. He seized hold of her so tightly she cried out, and shoved her up against a wall. "You!" he cried.

"Don't!" she cried as his hand flew to her throat, passing dangerously close by the hollow where her precious, delicate vocal folds lived.

He froze. "What?" cried he, upon finding that his quarry was not only not the Phantom, but a woman. Then, in tones of the greatest astonishment, "Christine Daae?"

"Monsieur de Chagny!" she cried. "Oh, thank Heaven!"

"Then I have lost him!" he cried. "Of all the damnable- forgive me. Why did you run from me? You heard my voice."

"Because I thought you were he - you were chasing after me! Why?"

"Because I thought the same of you," he said, suspicion in his voice. "What were you doing down here, Mademoiselle?"

She swiftly cast about for an explanation. "I went looking for him," she said at last, realizing with a start that this part of her story was in fact perfectly true.

"What?" he cried.

Christine edged away from him. He frightened her. She hated being alone in the darkness with him like this. "I... I thought perhaps I could reason with him."

"You women!"

"Or if not," she said, "I always carry a dagger."

He struck a match. She winced - she had not expected him to do that. Her eyes adjusted swiftly to the bright new light, and she could only imagine his were doing the same.

He squinted at her.

Mercifully, the cloak looked as though it could have belonged to her; he suspected nothing. Thank Heaven that women borrowing men's styles was in fashion this season.

"This was very foolish of you," he said at last. "Never mind. Come with me; I shall continue my search."

"What?"

"Your presence may in fact prove to be an advantage."

"Oh, I think not," she stammered, fumbling for an excuse.

"We already know the ghost is obsessed with you. If this is indeed the same person who has been sending all those threatening letters, he is bound to be nearby."

That was true, she realized with a chill. It was a comfort to know Erik might be near, but the thought of the Comte having him so close at hand terrified her.

"But I am frightened," she said. "And Madame Giry will be worried for me."

"Madame Giry? What has she to do with it?"

"She brought me up. She is like a mother to me - as a matter of fact, she was engaged to be married to my father, may God rest his soul."*

"The ballet-mistress?" he said in tones of the deepest skepticism.

"Yes," Christine said with a hard edge to her voice.

"Well. Then we should go."

"Yes." She turned back.

"We would not want to keep the ballet-mistress waiting," he muttered.

Christine stamped on his foot in the darkness.

"Oh, forgive me!" she said as he cried out.

"If... you... please, Mademoiselle," he said through gritted teeth, taking hold of her elbow - and he kept her at arm's length as they maneuvered back upstairs.

After a few minutes' searching, she found their way back, and they emerged, blinking, into the ballroom, which was still brightly lit, the party raging on as though nothing had happened. Parisians were eternally unflappable.

However, there were at least two people who looked unsettled. Madame Giry and Meg were sitting fretfully on a secluded bench.

They leapt up as the Comte approached, announcing loudly that "he" had found Christine.

Meg embraced her - a gesture she normally only submitted to when someone's loved one had died. Madame Giry took her hands warmly and kissed her on both cheeks.

"I am well, _mère_ ," Christine said. "We are both safe." She raised her eyebrows meaningfully, and she could see that Madame Giry caught the double meaning.

"Thank Heaven," she said. "I thought that horrible man might have carried you off somewhere."

Christine almost laughed.

"Are you well?" Meg demanded.

"Yes, thank you," Christine said automatically, but the words rang hollow.

"I must go," the Comte said. "The police have asked me to assist in their search, and our efforts have already been disrupted for too long." This last with a glare aimed at Christine. Then, with a stiff bow, he turned on his heel and disappeared.

"Go," Christine sneered under her breath, pumping the word so full of venom that Meg laughed.

"Well," she said when he had gone, brushing her hands off on her jacket. "This was an unexpected development."

"What was?" Christine said.

"This whole evening. Erik. Did you know?"

"Do you mean about his face? Of course I knew!" Christine said, irritated partly by the absurd question and partly by her embarrassment that she had seen Erik's face only once - if Meg knew that, she would assuredly think her mad.

"But you are... attracted to him?"

"Very much so."

"Well, then. That's all that matters," Meg said. "It speaks well of you, I suppose."

"I don't know that it does," Christine said. "I fell in love, that is all. It wasn't an act of charity."

Meg didn't seem to hear her. She was staring at the place on the stairs where Erik had been standing when the woman snatched off his mask. "So that's why," she said after a moment.

"What?" Christine said, shaking herself out of her stupor.

"The reason for all of it."

"Oh," Christine said, understanding now. "Yes. In a way, a part of me is glad you know. Now you can understand."

"Yes," Meg said. She paused. "But it seems excessive, don't you think?"

Christine flinched. "What?"

"Hiding away because he imagines everyone will hate him."

Christine's anger flared. "He does not _imagine_ it. He has abundant proof-"

"-I suppose he thinks it justifies blackmail."

"He thinks nothing of the sort." Christine's voice had crescendoed, and she was glad for the hubbub of the party drowning her out.

"He ought to try to make an honest living," Meg said.

"Meg-" Madame Giry said warningly.

But Meg charged on. "How can he know what people will think of him if he will not make an attempt? I call it cowardly of him."

Christine's helpless rage was overwhelming. Madame Giry had never told Meg of her own part in Erik's history, and Christine did not feel comfortable revealing it, for Erik's sake. So she gritted her teeth.

"When he submitted his music they rewarded him handsomely," Meg pointed out.

"That was because it was an anonymous contest. He nearly lost the money because he could not claim it in person."

"No-one was stopping him."

"I suppose you imagine looks have no part in anything," Christine cried. "That is a very convenient position for you to take. Do you suppose you would be a soloist if you were not beautiful? You said yourself Agnès is twice the dancer you are, but she is stuck in the back row because she does not have blonde hair and-"

"-That is the most ridiculous pile of-"

"-Or that the Baron would ever have noticed you?" Christine snapped.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

The instant the words were out of her mouth Christine regretted them. "Meg, forgive me-"

But it was too late. "I think of nothing else," Meg said, eyes blazing. "I must already live with the fear that he will not love me anymore when I am old and ugly, if I am fortunate enough to live that long."

Christine squirmed.

Meg's next words cut her deeply. "But you - do you suppose you would have ever been given a chance to sing so much as a note if you weren't something to look at?" she said. "Do you suppose anyone would care to listen to you?"

The stab of regret Christine had felt disappeared. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do-"

"-Do you really flatter yourself that it is all due to your talent? What's going to happen to you when you lose your looks? No-one will cast Christine Daae then."

"How can you-"

"-I hope you're careful with your money, because otherwise you'll be penniless by the time you're forty, and that madman certainly won't be able to protect or provide for you!" Meg cried.

Christine froze, dumbstruck with rage.

"I think we had better go," Madame Giry said after a moment, putting a hand on Meg's arm.

Christine was scarcely less angry than her than with Meg. _If you had had the courage to tell your daughter what you know of Erik, she would never have said those things!_ she thought furiously.

"I think there isn't much more to be said," she agreed at last. Her anger had bypassed the usual stages of shouting; it was so complete that she felt nothing. Her whole body had gone cold.

Meg lifted her chin a shade higher. "She may go if she wishes. I have said nothing I need be ashamed of."

Christine dug her fingernails into her palms.

"You have had a difficult evening, my dear," Madame Giry said uncomfortably. "Perhaps you ought to try to rest."

"Rest?" Christine cried. "When I do not know if Erik is- is-" She stifled a sob.

He had been right. She would lose all her allies because of him. They would have to forge ahead alone. Never mind; she was ready.

"But what if he cannot get word to you?" Madame Giry said in a gentle voice. "Do you intend to stay up for days?"

"Yes, if I must," Christine said.

Meg coughed. "Well, don't count on our carriage waiting around for you all night," she threw over her shoulder. "The Baron and I want to go out dancing after we drop Maman home."

"I am reassured to here that is more important to you than finding out whether my fiancé is safe," Christine said.

"You can't suppose I'm going to risk ruining things with the Baron because of Erik's foolishness?" Meg said.

"Then I wish you both a very pleasant evening," Christine snapped.

"This is not to be borne!" Meg cried. She looked to Madame Giry, but her mother's face revealed nothing as she stood awkwardly between the two of them. At least she flung up her arms. "Very well," she said, and she spun on her heel and stormed off through the crowd.

 **End of Chapter 35. Thank you so much for reading! Thank you so to** **Comical freaka, olivecspence, mysticalpapaya4, Charlotte, Kate Fellon, Wolfshadow1, pinkdynamite, WraithSnakeZenith, Mars,** **WitzendWander723, and Lady Myth for your kind reviews. They mean the world to me!**

* * *

 ***Note: I don't know why I never thought of this before, but I'm pretty sure in the movie they were intimating that Madame Giry and Christine's father were romantically linked in some way. Otherwise, why would she have been at his deathbed, and why would she have taken Christine and raised her like her own daughter? He must have authorized her to do so. Also, times were very hard; it would have taken some significant inducement for a working-class mother (who was probably widowed) to take on an extra dependent, and presumably foot the cost of her ballet lessons. A romantic connection or engagement made the most sense to me as an explanation for that.**


	36. Deleted Scene

**Here we are! I absolutely loved this scene - it was so much fun to write - but after working on it for awhile, I began to think it didn't really fit with the characters. Now, I think it might have actually been the best choice to include it.**

 **You can decide for yourself. :) It would have gone in Chapter 10 (and replaced much of that chapter as it now stands). It would have slightly altered some of the subsequent events, so please don't consider it part of the plot anymore or that would just be unbelievably confusing.**

 **Thank you for reading and have a beautiful day!**

* * *

Christine accepted the unexpected summons to the managers' office with trepidation. The chorus-members and the corps de ballet had been looking at her with suspicion all afternoon, and when she had inquired to Madame Giry about it, her foster-mother had said, with a sorrowful face, that she was bound not to tell her anything.

Something was very much amiss.

When she arrived, she was surprised to see that the room was full of important-looking, grim-faced men. The managers were there, the artistic director, and three men Christine didn't recognize, wearing the uniform of the Paris gendarmerie.

The only woman besides herself was La Carlotta, who regarded her with a triumphant smirk.

Raoul was seated off to one side, the only person looking at her with any sympathy.

"Bonjour, Signora, Messieurs," she said uncertainly, closing the door behind her. "Raoul."

"Christine," Raoul said, "Please do not think that this means-"

"-Mademoiselle," Firmin said, cutting him off, "We have here Inspector Dupin from the Commissariat of Police."

Christine felt a chill.

"Good afternoon, Mademoiselle," Dupin said. "I shall not waste your time. You have heard that this opera house has been plagued by suspicious and threatening letters?"

Christine hid a smile. "Good afternoon, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. I think there are few who have not."

"Of course she knows," La Carlotta cut in. "She-"

"-Signora," Dupin said, "if you would be so kind as to let me conduct this inquiry without interference. Now, Mademoiselle Daae, I am sorry to say there has been another note."

"When?" Christine said.

"Last night. The threats have grown outlandish enough that your managers have called upon me to investigate. This one, in particular, I am sorry to say, made extensive reference to you and your misfortunes. In particular, it demanded that you be paid a not inconsiderable sum of money."

"What? Me?"

"You can see why I called you here."

Christine's blood ran cold.

Of course, there had always been rumors. Many suspected her of being the Phantom.

But they could not place the blame for this new note, whatever it said, on her. Surely not…

"Have a seat, Mademoiselle," Dupin said. "Thank you. You should make yourself comfortable. Now, Mademoiselle, where were you yesterday evening?"

"I was here all evening."

"-You admit you were here?" he said.

She blinked, taken aback. "Yes; I often practice here. I was in my dressing-room."

"Is there anyone who can testify that you were there all evening? That you did not, perhaps, stop by the managers' office?"

Christine swallowed. "No." Well, only Erik, and his word would hardly be considered credible.

"Very well then." Dupin turned to another page in the notebook he had open before him."Mademoiselle, how much is your salary?"

"Thirty francs a month."

Dupin looked at her in surprise. "Not very much."

"No."

"Especially not for a young woman who has made ticket sales higher than they were before the war."

"I cannot take credit for that," Christine said.

La Carlotta snorted.

"Perhaps you grew frustrated?" Dupin pressed gently.

"No."

"You wanted the credit. Anyone would."

"I am very happy here," she insisted.

Dupin looked down at his notebook. "I understand you lost your father when you were very young?"

"Both my parents, yes."

"You have had to fend for yourself."

"Yes."

"Orphans often turn to crime. It is a sad truth."

Christine tried to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. "Monsieur, let us examine the situation logically. I-"

"-I beg your pardon?" Dupin drew himself up taller in his chair. "What is it you suppose I have been trying to do?"

"Monsieur, anyone can see if I had been making twenty thousand francs a month from blackmail, I would not be living in a tiny little closet of an appartement a thousand miles away from my place of work, that is almost too tiny for one person, and yet I share it with another girl - we don't have enough coal for the stove - I subsist almost entirely on beans and toast-" She broke off, realizing her temper would not make her more sympathetic.

Dupin eyed her suspiciously. "-That is a very fine gown, I notice," he said after a moment.

"It was a gift from me," Raoul said at once.

Christine felt herself go bright red, torn between anger and embarrassment.

"Oh," Dupin said. "You and Monsieur le Vicomte…?"

"Might we have a moment alone?" Christine asked.

"Anything you wish to say, you can say here," Dupin said.

Christine, gritting her teeth, looked to Raoul. To his credit, he nodded.

"Monsieur le Vicomte has done me the honor of making me an offer," she said at last, resenting having this dragged out of her - she knew it would be all over the gossip columns by the next day, and for some reason she hated to think of anyone, particularly Erik, hearing about it. "But I have not yet given him a reply."

"You have not accepted?"

"As I said, I have not given a reply of any kind."

"Surely you wish to have a household and family of your own?" Dupin asked in surprise.

"Certainly I do, but not yet. There is a great deal I wish to accomplish first."

"You are an ambitious woman," he said.

"Yes - I own it."

He sighed and wrote something down. "You would do anything for success?"

"Only things that were right, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."

"Indeed," he said skeptically. "But what about…. Writing notes? Making demands? Threats?"

"Monsieur, I am not a blackmailer or an extortionist. I have never harmed anyone."

"I am afraid your word does not tell me very much," he said.

"Then ask any of the employees here - they will vouch for my character."

"I am afraid the employees here know very little about you," Dupin said.

"You have been asking people about me?" she cried in outrage.

"Yes," he said. "They all tell me you hardly ever speak to anyone."

"Is being quiet and keeping to one's self a crime now?"

"No - but combined with the fact that I have heard from more than one employee that you are always sneaking off by yourself, for what ends I cannot imagine, it is curious."

Christine began to lose her temper. "Monsieur," she said, "I do not need to stoop to blackmail in order to achieve success. I am not just any woman - I am Christine Daae, the daughter of one of the finest musicians of the century! I would never betray his memory by committing the sort of despicable acts you are accusing me of! I shall succeed by my own merits, and on my own terms!"

This momentary outburst was meant with a bewildered look from Raoul and disdainful stares from everyone else.

"Mademoiselle," Dupin said after a moment, looking up, "I am sorry, but it is my duty to take you back to the station for questioning."

Christine gasped. "Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I entreat you - if it were to become known that I had been questioned by the police, I would be ruined. It would be the end of my career - I should never be able to make a good marriage-" She broke off as Dupin's subordinates took hold of her arms. "Stop it! Release me! Release me at once!" she cried frantically, leaping up.

Raoul sprang toward her. "Have pity on her, damn you!"

"Monsieur le Vicomte, I don't like it any more than you do," Dupin said, "But it is necessary."

"And you call yourself an inspector? The chief of police will hear about this!" Raoul cried.

"I'm sure he will," Dupin muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. "In the meanwhile, Monsieur le Vicomte, I shall continue to do my duty as usual. Mademoiselle, I trust I do not need you to wear handcuffs?"

"Wait - please, no!" Christine cried, her voice catching in a sob. "There has been some terrible misunderstanding!"

"I am sorry to interrupt this festive occasion, Messieurs," a deep voice suddenly said from behind them.

Everyone whirled around. The officers were so surprised that they released Christine's arms.

A masked man was sitting in an armchair by the door, his legs crossed, one arm resting casually across the back of the chair, regarding them all with a pleasant smile. In one hand, he casually twirled a pistol.

Christine let out a scream of surprise. How did he get in? More to the point - how had he found out about this?

A moment later, she realized the gun was now pointed at her head.

Well, that was interesting.

"Why so silent, good Messieurs?" Erik said, as the room became deathly still. "Haven't you ever had one of your sopranos taken hostage before?"

Christine managed to conjure a look of fear.

"Really, it's astonishing no one has thought to carry off La Carlotta," Erik went on. Clearly he was enjoying having a captive audience. "The world would be a better place. However, losing her would hardly qualify as a disaster beyond imagination, and I always keep my promises. Mademoiselle Daae, on the other hand… The Emperor would be very put out to have lost his favorite new soprano."

Why, this is daring of him… Christine thought. But if it is successful, they won't suspect me anymore… he is clever… Oh, but I wish he had not taken such a risk for me...

"This is the threat the note was referring to?" Raoul said.

"Evidently." The sarcasm in Erik's voice was withering. "Or would you like something more? Should I drop the chandelier on the audience?"

"You can't take her hostage-" Andre cried.

Dupin cut him off with a gesture. "-We must all do as he says," he said, scowling at Erik.

"Thank you, Dupin," Erik said. "How good to see you again. I always suspected you of having a moderate amount of intelligence. I have been watching your career with considerable interest. Now, everyone will listen to me. Mademoiselle will be coming with me. I trust she is sensible enough to cooperate. You will give us two minutes' head start once we leave this office. A carriage is waiting for us outside. From thence, I shall escort her to a secure location, where she will remain for the next twenty-four hours. I shall send proof that she is alive. In return, you will give me my salary. I left an accounts statement with the remaining balance in Monsieur Firmin's desk, along with a note, next to the rather alarming erotic photographs he was preparing to send to his extraordinarily unfortunate mistress. Ah - but I see you have found all of the above already. How very efficient of you, Dupin. Well, then, nothing remains to be done. Mademoiselle Daae?"

He held out his hand to Christine, beckoning. Mechanically she walked over to him.

"Please," she said. "Don't hurt me!" Not for a moment did she suspect he would harm her, but it was best to keep up the charade.

"Oh, no, my dear," Erik said. He turned to the group. "Certainly not before tomorrow. However, at the end of that time, if my salary is not given to me… well… "

"No!" Raoul cried, as Erik swept his cloak around her. "Free her!"

Erik smiled. "It is in your hands, Monsieur le Vicomte. If my salary is supplied to me by tomorrow mid-day, perhaps I shall give her back. I understand she is very valuable to this Opéra just at the moment - and especially to you."

"-How dare you?" Raoul cried.

Smirking, Erik ignored him. "Or who knows," he said, "perhaps I shall keep her. She is a pretty little thing - don't you think so? She would make me a charming Phantomess."

That's going a bit too far. Christine elbowed him in the side. He ignored her.

"No!" Raoul shouted, distraught, as they went toward the door. "Have you no pity?"

Erik merely laughed.

With a swirl of his cloak, he swept Christine out the door and slammed it shut behind them.

The sudden silence was deafening.

Christine stared at him in shock.

"Make haste," he said. "This way, quickly." And they were running down a hallway, taking twisting turns until even she had forgotten where they were.

"Erik!" she cried. "What is the meaning of all this? How did you know…"

His face was grim. "There isn't time to explain. That damned Vicomte of yours won't give me two minutes."

"He is not 'my Vicomte'. Erik, I am grateful for this… and you have been very brave… but you should not have risked your safety for me." Her heart was pounding with excitement. What a romantic adventure this was turning out to be. Was it possible he felt something for her?

"I have done nothing illegal," he shrugged. "I went into an open office and pointed a gun at a woman who was perfectly aware that I had no intention of actually harming her; if the other persons present assumed differently, well, what is that but an unfortunate misunderstanding?"

"Yes, that is all very clever of you, but what if they imagine you actually are the Phantom - did you think of that?"

He laughed dryly. "Yes, that would be a catastrophe." Suddenly he stopped, scanning the wall. After a moment, he pressed on a faint indentation in the smoothly wallpapered surface. To her astonishment, a panel swung open, revealing a passage beyond.

Christine stifled a scream.

He really was the ghost. He hadn't just scared Buquet. He had caused all those catastrophic accidents - one of which had nearly killed her.

She was in the power of a dangerous madman. He had a gun, she was alone with him, and no one knew where they were.

"It is you!" she cried.

"Christine, do not be absurd. Any fool can put on a mask."

"No! It is you!" She felt numb. "There are only two copy of the blueprints; one is at the Imperial Archives and the other went missing years ago - everyone could see it must be in the hands of this person who calls himself the Phantom…"

He understood at once from her expression that he could not deceive her any longer. "Inside," he said shortly. "If they see us out here conversing, they'll imprison us both."

She dared not disobey.

The panel swung shut behind them, plunging them into darkness.

He struck a match, the sound loud in the silence, and then they were awash in flickering orange light.

To her surprise, he stood perfectly still, staring at the ground.

"I suppose I always knew that you would realize it eventually," he sighed. His voice was could see his face, his mask only in silhouette. "In fact, I think in your heart of hearts you have known it for so long. When one is as clever as you, one can only suspend disbelief for so long."

"Is that all you have to say?" she cried.

"What else is there to say?"

"Tell me why!" she cried. "Why have you been doing these terrible things?"

"I don't see that I owe you any explanation," he said impatiently.

"Oh! No! Of course not! You never thought enough of me for that - that was all a ruse too!" She began to weep. "My God - I have been so stupid! I did not even see that you were actually kidnapping me!"

"What?" he cried.

"Oughtn't we to hurry?" she said scathingly. "There isn't any time to waste when one is abducting defenseless young women!"

"You cannot actually suppose I would really kidnap you?" he cried, aghast.

"Why not? The Phantom is - you are - capable of anything! Blackmail - extortion- I suppose that was all you."

"Yes, it was," he confessed.

She gasped with horror.

"-But Christine! - There was a reason for it!"

She felt a flicker of hope. "What?"

"The... circumstances in my life..."

"No, that will not do!"

"I cannot tell you any more than that," he said miserably.

"Why not?"

"I am afraid it is... difficult to explain."

"Don't be utterly ridiculous!" she scoffed. "You think me a fool!"

"Never!"

"I was right all those months ago - you really are nothing but a scoundrel!"

"Is this really what you think of me?" he said.

"It is!"

They regarded each other in silence for a long time, both curiously out of breath.

He was the first to speak.

"In a moment," he said, "I shall lead you out the other end of this passage. We will be in the stairwell just above the entry hall. I imagine our friend the inspector will find us before long - he is not entirely with brains."

"Find us?" she echoed dumbly. She had not been expecting this. "But you said-"

"-Well, I changed my mind. Now-" He jerked the cartridge open and the six bullets jangled to the floor. "-you shall be able to tell our friend the inspector, if you wish, that you managed to wrest the weapon away from me - that you removed the bullets from the gun - that I am now defenseless and unarmed." Unarmed, that was, except for the cyanide tablets he always carried with him. He was determined never to be locked up in a cage again. "You will be the hero of the day, and the Phantom will never trouble this Opera again."

"But-" Christine stared at him. "Why?" she asked at long last.

"Because I have grown tired of this charade. I am getting too old for this nonsense. I have hidden under the opera house for twenty-three years - I am tired of living like an animal in a burrow. You may end all of that, easily, this afternoon."

She stood frozen.

"What?" he said, as her silence grew long.

"Please - do not put this in my hands," she pleaded.

"Why not? You have the chance to rid the city of a dangerous madman. I should think that would be a great honor." He laughed bitterly.

"Unless you suppose me to be entirely without feeling, then you know perfectly well I cannot see it in that light."

"What do you mean?"

"I find your actions reprehensible - but you also… you gave me music. Not to mention you may have saved me from being imprisoned this afternoon. After all we have shared, I…"

He scoffed. "What have we shared? Nothing."

He threw open a panel and pulled her through, swinging it shut behind them.

She stopped, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him.

"Come, quickly," he said, and then they had rounded a corner and were suddenly at the top of the grand staircase, with sunlight pouring in through the windows. "Any moment now, those two fools who run my theater ought to stumble upon us. You had better decide what you mean to do, Christine Daae."

Just as he spoke, those two fools materialized at the bottom of the stairs, led by Inspector Dupin and accompanied by a frantic-looking Raoul.

"At last," Erik muttered wryly. "Really, I almost had to chase them. It is a good thing I was not actually kidnapping you, or they would never have found you."

"Unhand her, you demon!" Raoul cried, starting to charge forward, his hand moving to his side.

"Make your choice," Erik hissed under his breath.

"I already have," she said. "May God forgive me."

Hope surge through Erik. He snatched back the pistol from where he had stuck it into her waistband, brandished it with a flourish, and pointed it at Christine's head.

"By all means, Monsieur le Vicomte," he cried triumphantly, "keep reaching for that revolver you have concealed in the second pocket of that hideous jacket. I assure you, I can pull this trigger before you reach it!"

Raoul froze at once. Firmin kept running, but Dupin seized a fistful of his jacket and pulled him back. Christine saw that he, too, had a gun in his hand.

"You will notice," the inspector cried, "That you are not the only one with a weapon! There is no escape! Now, is this sorry chapter in the Opéra's history going to end in a sensible resolution and justice being done, or is it going to end in bloodshed? Tell me, Monsieur!"

Erik froze.

"Will you do one last favor for me?" he murmured to Christine. "I shall never ask anything of you again, Christine."

She nodded ever so slightly.

"Then, if you would be so good, pretend to fall down the stairs. It will distract them."

He started to back away from her, his footsteps as slow and deliberate as a tiger's. As he went, he suddenly shot out a hand pretended to shove her. She feigned a scream and pretended to grab for the railing. Calling on her ballet training to keep from overbalancing, she teetered forward, and crumbled onto the stairs, rolling gingerly.

Soon she began to whirl round, wincing as her ribcage banged against each step, one, two, three, four, five, until she lost count. It was a convincing feint; she heard a few gasps from below.

As she went, she heard the sound of gunshots and Erik's retreating feet.

Finally, she landed like a rag doll on the entry hall floor.

Instantly a pair of arms had encircled her and pulled her to a sitting position.

"Are you well?" Raoul said, his expression full of concern, his face inches from hers. "Christine... Great Heavens! Thank God you are safe!"

The managers, the inspector's assistants, and even La Carlotta were standing over her with anxious expressions. Inspector Dupin had, it seemed, run off in pursuit of Erik. Somehow Christine doubted he would catch him.

"He did not hurt you, did he?" Raoul asked.

She collapsed into his arms. She didn't care what it made him think. She needed the closeness of another human being.

And perhaps… Perhaps if he thought it meant something, she would not mind.

He was a good man. She was tired of being alone. And most of all, she was tired of enigmas and riddles. Raoul couldn't keep a secret to save his life, and while before she had always thought that a rather dull quality, now she begin to think it was, in fact, admirable.

Through the gap between Raoul's arm and his side, she looked back up the stairs. It seemed her distraction had worked - Erik was gone. She would never see him again.

"Perhaps we should send for a doctor," Raoul said.

"No," she said. "He did not harm me. But Raoul… I was so very afraid…" Her voice caught in her throat.

She had planned on pretending to cry. After an ordeal like that, she reasoned, she ought to produce some tears for the sake of verisimilitude. But now that the moment was upon her, she found she didn't have to pretend.

He had not harmed her, it was true - but he had hurt her beyond words.

 _Erik…_

* * *

 **End of deleted scene**


End file.
